


Place Your Bets

by vaultboii



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Betrayal, Canon Related, Casino Royale, Casino!AU, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, raising to mature to be safe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:32:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: When Mic manages to land the role of Announcer in Inkwell Hell Casino, he expects nothing less than to be treated horribly by the hostile employees that are rumoured to live there. However, he’s surprised at the gentleness of the employees, and of his new Manager, the sly Mr. King Dice who treats him like an equal right off the bat. Little does he know that he’s about to be plunged headfirst into a catastrophic fight over the Casino alongside his co-workers, whether he likes it or not.King Dice is tired of smiling all the time. The Devil’s claim has branded him, and the weight of the Casino is heavy with all the rumours slandering it. Faced with the choice of abandoning his fortune, or losing it all, he can do nothing but endure.Cuphead’s made the wrong bet, and now his poor brother is in the mix too. The Devil’s laid his trap out right around them, and working at the Casino and collecting contracts under King Dice isn’t going to be easy.Ah, yes, the Man Downstairs has his fingers wrapped around every employee of Inkwell Hell Casino, and he doesn’t plan to let go.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OFF: The Announcer headcanon/OC character belongs to Teas! http://circateas.tumblr.com/ I'm just writing a fic regarding him! :D The announcer's name will be Mic or Mikey.
> 
> Alrighty, here we go. So this story takes place in my own personal interpretation of the Cuphead story with some added details. For one, Cuphead and Mugman are around 19-20, and are given seven years to collect the soul contracts whilst working under the Devil at his Casino. This story takes place during those seven years, whereas Mic the Announcer was hired the following week after the incident where Cup and Mug lost their bet against the Devil. In other words, there are going to be some time skips, and when they happen I'm going to scream out "A YEAR PAST" or "A MONTH HAS PASSED" in the title. 
> 
> Another thing! The story skips between points of view of Mic, King Dice, Cuphead and etc. I am not going to be announcing when these happen in the titles. Do not assume all the points of view are Mic's, because then you will be very confused. 
> 
> otherwise, enjoy!

The Cigar was the one who greeted Mic at the Manager’s door.

“The Boss will be here soon.” The employee rasped. An aroma of smoke trickled around him, a stench of singed wool mixed with burnt ash. The smell was gag-worthy, like that of a full ash tray that had accidentally tipped over onto a lush carpet. He was dressed sharp; a heavy coat draped over his shoulders, and his tuxedo was dashed in red. A fat cigar sat comfortably between his fingers. Mic stared at it, trying to block the heavy stench of burnt fabric. “You’re the new guy, mm?”

“That’s me.” He glanced away from the cigar to the name tag; _Mr. Wheezy_ , it read in fine font, and he had to choke back his smile at that. _Mr. Wheezy. Who would’ve guessed._ “Mr. Wheezy.”

“He can read. That’s always a good sign in Announcers.” Mr. Wheezy put the cigar between his lips and snorted. Ash shifted dangerously, and flakes collapsed down on the already-dusty coat. “Well – let’s have it.” He gestured broadly. More flakes cascaded downwards. “Your name.”

“Mic.” _Mikey,_ really. If anyone bothered to care. “Mic. Mike. Mikey. Doesn’t matter.”

“Mic-ey.” The cigar puffed the name out proudly. “Not bad, not bad. Has a ring to it. He’ll like that.”

 _Him. The Manager. The King._ He took a good look at the door the Cigar was blocking. His watch already read five minutes past their scheduled meeting time. “Where is he?”

“Inside.” Mr. Wheezy put one hand in a coat pocket, and beamed with yellowing teeth. “He’s got the Man Downstairs to deal with, so forgive the delay.”

“Who?”

“Oh, you know,” and Mr. Wheezy winked quickly, taking one hand and pointing down, “The Big Man. The One on the Throne.” He blinked. The cigar took that as understanding. “He’s his Right-Hand Man, you know? King. He’s got the Big Man’s work to do. Forgive the delay.”

“Ah.” The clock read six minutes. “...And how long –”

A clap screamed through the hall. He jumped, heart pumping steadily. It was as if something had slapped shut right in his audials, a door slammed in his face just enough to crack the sound and grind it into him. Mr. Wheezy remained stationary, still beaming his yellowed grin. “And he’s done.” The employee said simply, and removed the cigar to blow a string of smoke in the hall. He stepped aside. “Head on in.”

He tried for a sentence. It seemed the noise had temporarily muted him; he scrambled to say anything, _anything, you’re the new Announcer –_ but his dumbfoundness had him nodding moronically. Mr. Wheezy managed to grin wider and place a hand on his shoulder. “Ah – and one thing?” The cigar said right before he stepped through those great red doors in the Manager's office. “Do keep it down about the smell. The Big Man stinks up King’s office every time he visits, and Boss hates it when people talk about it.” He winked, let go of his shoulder, and then he was left alone in the doorframe.

_Well, piss on you too, thank you._

There was no light when he walked in. An understatement; the blackness was akin to the night sky, sans stars and other interferences. He barely could tell if he was in a hall or the actual office; he stretched his hand out, hoping for a surface. That went nowhere; _hell_ , he couldn’t see his palm either.

He had only taken around five steps to where he hoped was forward when the voice stopped him.

“That you, Wheezy?” It snapped: gruff, irritated. It suggested the person’s migraine just by the ending snarl – he found himself already taking two steps back to avoid collision with the beast behind the question. “I told you to stand guard.”

Oh, lovely. “No, sir.” He called out into the blackened room – it might have been a trick of light, but he thought he spotted a shift in the abyss that layered the room. “My name’s Mic. You hired...?”

A long, agonizing pause filled the abyss-painted room. “Ah!” The voice suddenly announced, and there was a loud crash. He jumped back again, just as a mumbled curse rang through the room. “Oh, there’s the filthy _bi_ – _bugger all_ where’s that blasted light switch...!”

And then the lights flashed on.

He wouldn’t go so far to describe the room as extravagant. Nothing was dazzling, neither blinding, nor sparkling in richness. Actually, comparing to rumours, the room was slightly less than what he expected of the King. Still, it was fairly large; he realized the floor he was standing on was carpet, a darkened hue of crimson that blended perfectly with the lace curtains behind the desk. The desk itself was magnificent – towering, it loomed over him, weathered papers and quills organized neatly on its surface. The walls were plastered with contracts; laminated, yellow contracts, all with sloppy signatures and shiny from polish. There were a few bookshelves stacked with hard-covers, and a map of the world was sprawled over a small table in the corner. One enormous leather chair sat behind the desk – the matching pair sat in front, facing. He presumed that was where he sat.

He was so caught up in the sight of it all he didn’t hear the clearing of a throat behind him the first time. Then the second. Then, finally, a voice teased, “Enjoying it, arent’cha?”

He snapped around. There stood a die; not any dice, but the die he’d seen multiple times advertising the casino on the news channel. The purple of his suit stood out firmly from his office; a dashing tuxedo, if he was being honest, fresh from the tip of the bowtie to the bottoms of his soles. A five karat smile was carved from cheek to cheek on the Manager’s face.

He couldn’t stop himself from flushing at the taunt. “It’s quite the room, yes.” He managed, and cursed his steaming cheeks.  

His Boss continued onwards, grin sharp. “So, you’re the new guy, eh?” The die looked up and stared him in the eyes. That was another thing he noticed; the die was shorter than him. It seemed his employer noticed too, but if anything that grin flashed a bit brighter. “The one Chips wouldn’t shut up about – Mic, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No sirs. Call me King Dice.” The King said; his teeth flashed brightly, and the die held a gloved hand out. “Mic, Mike – mm, you applied for...?”

“Announcer.” He took the dice’s hand.

“That’d be it.” And suddenly there’s a folder in the King’s other hand. It flipped open; papers are scrutinized and tossed aside. He’s still holding the man’s hand. _Are his hands trembling?_ He can’t tell. Thank the Devil he wore gloves. “Mikey, Miiiic – and there we have it, Mic the new Announcer, swept ol’ Chips right off his feet and poor Martini off hers. I’ve been dyin’ to meet ya.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Oh, that sounded weak. He smiled widely to make it seem better.

King laughed, and shook his hand. “No, no, pleasure’s mine, pleasure’s all mine – tell me something, Mikey ol’ chap, you notice the smell in here?”

Indeed he had. It was overwhelming the instant he came in; the smell of wet fur and burning hair. The smell of a cat owner’s house, he mused. A rather sadistic cat owner. “I was warned by a worker of yours to zip it about it.” He admitted.  “Brings a _horrid_ mood, they say.”

King’s eyes flashed green. It was an alarming colour; one moment they had been black, the next a vivid shade of lime green that faded when the die blinked. “Who?” The Manager inquired heartily, and let go of his hand. His voice was dangerously low. “It’d be that Wheezy, that ol’ scoundrel, I bet.”

Maybe that had been a bad thing to tell the man. He thought about the yellowing cigar still outside with his warnings, and wondered if his carelessness could cost an employee his job. Something in him crawled; as much as the cigar had been blunt, he had warned him. “I don’t sell out my informers.” He said without thought, then froze.

_Ah, shit._

Nothing moved for the briefest of seconds. He took a glance at King. An unrecognizable expression flashed across the die’s face. _Well, it was a good job while it lasted_ , he mused and readied himself for the boot out the door.

And then it was gone, and a warm, welcoming smirk filled his Boss’ face. King Dice clapped him on the back, and the green was back in his eyes, vivid and captivating. “I think we’ll get along just fine.” The man taunted, and thwacked his folder on the desk. The eyes remained lime as the Manager kept his hand clapped on his back, and guided him out the door with that smirk. “Just fine, Mikey boy, just _fine_ indeed.”

And he let the King lead him out, wondering if Lady Luck really was shining down at him.


	2. Brothers and Rooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wh at the heck 
> 
> who are you GUYS
> 
> im screaming where have y'all come from and the amount of views.

* * *

 

The main floor was crowded with employees and regulars when King Dice led him down the stairs. Now and there a recognizable face popped up in the crowd; faces that had interviewed him earlier popped up between regulars, and the Cigar was standing near the foot of the stairs with a sly grin still on his face. The cigar looked up when they came down, and his eyes rested on King Dice’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well, well, well – the _freshie_ survived.” Mr. Wheezy drawled when they reached him, still puffing away at the noticeably shorter cigar. King Dice eyed him with this odd stare, and the thought crossed him that there was the slightest chance the die was going to bring up the stench of his office discussion. The King said nothing of it though, and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And with King too. What’d he do, Boss, bend over and kiss your shoes?”

King Dice gestured downwards. “They still have the soot marks from your orientation, Wheezy.”

“Bah, you wish.” Mr. Wheezy gave a chortle, turned and he realized they weren’t completely alone. Two small employees airily stepped out from behind Wheezy’s coat, eyes downcast. King’s hand twitched on his shoulder. “You hear that, Cup? King’s got a new man to push you slackers around.”

“King?” exclaimed the employees, snapping to attention; one of them he recognized from his way in, the small fella who barely brushed his knees with the tip of his straw. The mug snapped a salute; King Dice caught the gesture with another gleaming smile, even though his eyes flashed dangerously. “The King? Oh, Sir!”

“Cuphead. Mugman.” King Dice inclined a hand wave in their general direction. His voice was unmistakably cold. “Glad to see you’re... _working._ ”

 _Mugman_ was most likely the smaller of the two, and he was the one who saluted and gave a nervous twitch at the tone of the Manager. “Ah, yes – work. We were. Working. Working we were. Yes. Absolutely.” The mug stuttered, then promptly shut up with another hasty salute. _Talking to that squirt was going to be a challenge if all conversations were going to be in that manner_ , he mused and let a smile twitch on the side of his lips.

 _Cuphead_ was a different story. The employee did nothing, only blinked whilst a tired look slowly spread over his face. “We were working, Sir, but a bent crook tangled with Mangosteen again.” The cup shoved a thumb back to the main entrance, presumably where this ‘ _Mangosteen_ ’ was. “Caught him hand mucking again. This place reeks of rats.” He seemed to give the regular near them a squinting look, and the patron scurried off. “Mostly in the slots.”

“Attaboys.” With a flick King had changed moods from the frosty one he addressed Cuphead with to a more bright, vibrant one. His hand slid off Mic’s shoulder.

“Who’s the tree?” Cuphead lost interest in the so-called rats infesting the casino. The two squirts peered up at him, almost identical despite Cuphead being dressed in a crinkled red tuxedo with the sleeves rolled up, and Mugman in a neatly pressed suit of blue. “He’s blocking the light.”

“Boys, meet Mic.” Mr. Wheezy practically bellowed, and the casino went quiet; regulars posed around tables briefly looked up, and the bartender caught his eyes curiously. This shit-eating grin went over the Cigar’s face, and he looked startled as his own loudness. “Forgive me. Mic, why don’t you introduce yourself?” The shit-eating grin got larger. “For the boys.”

“That’s not necessary. You’ll be hearing me prattle constantly.” He had the undivided attention of the casino now. The Cigar’s grin was close to cracking the employee’s face in two. King Dice said nothing to his abuse from Wheezy, only looked knowingly at the cigar and there was a shared, well-worn glance between them. _It hasn’t even been my first day of work yet, and already I’m being harassed,_ he thought, _Doubled up on. What a welcome._

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m Mic. The new Announcer. Hooray.” He waved his hands dramatically, and the room went back to normal, chatter increasing. _Figures._

“Mic?” Mugman had opted to get closer, despite being nearly six heads shorter. “You’re the new Announcer? What happened to the old one?”

“Oh. _Him_.” King spoke finally. “The Big Man got tired o’ him.” He did not elaborate.

“Oh.” A confused expression crossed Mugman’s face, but the mug bit his lip and shut up.  

“So, now there’s _you_.” Cuphead looked Mic up and down. The sight would’ve been intimidating if the fella hadn’t been a wee shrimp of a man, and if that mental image of him punting the sarcastic cup across the casino hadn’t been running through his mind every time he glanced down. The Cup didn’t give him enough time to open his mouth to run a taunt through him; the shrimp blazed onwards with his own inquires. “Where’s he sleeping, Boss?”

“Where _is_ Mic sleeping, King?” He leaned back against the railing of the stairs, and raised an eyebrow. King almost looked startled at his sudden brashness. Eh. Everyone else was being loud. He ought to be too. “A room? A closet? The Announcer’s chair? Or does good Mikey get first sleep on the floor inside the men’s washroom, with the piss as company?”

“Mangosteen beat you to that.” The cigar added helpfully.

King Dice ignored the cigar in favour of answering his question. The man raised his hand and there was one of those swipe-cards, the key-cards that he had a habit of losing every time he booked into a hotel. He didn’t see where the key came from, or if the man had swiped it from the patrons brushing by them up the stairs. He glanced suspiciously at the die’s sleeves. Surely the man didn’t stick everything up them.

“Suite 117.” The die said firmly after examining the card. “Pretty lil’ suite, that one.”

“Oh, so you give _him_ the view.” Mr. Wheezy crossed his arms. The movement nearly caused an explosion of ash, and the two short employees inched away for cover behind a slot machine. “He gets it at first kick of the heels, and I’ve been workin’ at this casino how many years, King? Tell me.”

King grinned, and flipped the card to Mic. He barely caught it between his fingers. “Remind me again, Wheezy. Seems ta’ have slipped this ol’ Manager’s mind.”

“Seventeen. Seventeen or more years.” Mr. Wheezy’s voice oozed heartbreak, but his smile said anything but that. “And yet I’m still in Suite 200, stuck staring at the _beautiful scenery_ outside. Bricks.”

“I thought you wanted some similar company.”

The bantering continued onwards as he stared down at the card. The back read a nice gold _117._ On the front was etched an unfamiliar man with horns– _if it was a man –_ smirking. That was also stained in a golden hue, and the card shimmered in the light as he flipped it back and forth trying to make out any more markings. Surprisingly, it matched the curtains of the King’s office. Perhaps red and gold were the colours of the Casino.

“Bet you’ll lose that.” Cuphead’s voice said from down below. _He did barely brush his knees,_ he noted as he looked for the employee, finally finding him at his shins.

“Ten bucks that I don’t.” He said absentmindedly. The gleam of the card still captured his attention, and the small sentence wasn’t _that_ important, really. It didn’t deserve the an audience nor attention, like how King Dice and Wheezy went quiet very suddenly, or how the bartender across the way seemed to hear his words and stopped polishing that glass in his hands.

“Done.”

He started. There was venom in that tone, but not like before; it was a fire that thirsted for proving something. Dedication laced the cup’s tone, and when his eyes rose from the card the cup had a shining gleam to his face and he was grinning – a devilish snarl. The cup put his hands in his suit pockets and hummed a triumphant note. “By Sunday I bet you’ll lose that.” The employee concluded.

“If you say so.” He replied, and a tinge of unease went into that sentence.

King Dice said nothing. His eyes were glinting green again.

The silence shifted through the conversation as all parties stalled off, unsure of where to go from there. Mr. Wheezy opened his mouth, made to say something, then paused. The cigar on his lip was barely there now; it was a fat stub at this point, and the embers were starting to singe the cigar’s face. The employee noticed that too – the man quickly took the stub and shoved it into his mouth, and he watched, a bit repulsed, as Wheezy chewed the remains of his cigar and swallowed. King Dice didn’t provide a reaction to that; actually, he had trailed off from their group to greet a few patrons as they moved up back to their suites, eyes still glinting as he smiled pleasantly. The squirt brothers – or he assumed they were brothers, they _looked_ like twins – stayed quiet, glaring upwards when a plastered patron stumbled over them, nearly tripping on the boys. The patron said something to Cuphead, and the cup scowled.

Quiet went on for another good minute, and he felt awkwardness rise up until it was choking him – at that point he _had_ to leave before he died from second-hand embarrassment. “Well. I’ll be heading up.” He notified them all. Mr. Wheezy had lit up a new cigar. “Hopefully I’ll run into my suite.”

“Ah, that won’t do. I’ll join ya.” King Dice appeared again, and winked at him. The die tapped his forehead in a salute to Wheezy. He did not look down at the brothers. “Don’t get lost amongst Whiskey, Mr. Wheezy.”

“Piss off.” Mr. Wheezy responded jokingly, cheeks burning crimson, and with a wave of his hand, they left the three to their own jobs.

They were around the second floor was when King again placed his hand on his back. The sudden weight had a chill up his spine, but glancing sideways he just saw his boss, still grinning away with green eyes. “Wheezy’s an absolute scoundrel, is he not? Complete jackass. Can’t believe the nerve of him.” The man beamed brightly, pride an overtone in the words. That emotion faded at the next sentence. “And the boys – tell me, what you think of the brothers?”

Ah, so he was right about them being brothers. “They seem alright. Perhaps a tad kept to themselves, especially the mug.”

King looked thoughtful. “Mmm. Guess you could say that.” The die said, and the subject was dropped.

Suite Number 117 was at the back end of the top floor, on a section of a hallway that was closed off by a sign reading _‘Employees Only’_. It was plain red door, the number stamped in the middle again with gold. A small peephole was right above the number.

“Well.” He said. His shoulder was aflame from the King’s touch; his fingers were barely brushing his tux yet Mic swore he could feel their warmth. “Guess this is where we part.”

“Wait.” King Dice took his hand back, and _again,_ he pulled a notebook and pen from who-knows where. “The Big Man wants to know your clothing size. For special occasion purposes, that type o’ thing...”

“Oh.” He paused. Glanced at his clothes. “I’d say...two sizes up from you.” He looked down at the King. “Maybe extra long on the pants though.”

King snorted. “ _Tree_.” The Manager jested with a chuckle, and wrote something down on the pad. He snapped it up. “Well, let’s see your suite.”

Was his Boss going to just walk him with him into his suite? He thought of his old bosses, and their reluctance to do anything with their employees. King Dice waited patiently as he slowly slid the card between the key-reader, twitching. They caught eyes for a second, and the Boss winked again, grinning. _My god, he is going to walk me into my suite,_ came the thoughts, and maybe a bit of a grin came over his own face.

The key-reader buzzed affirmatively, the knob unlocked and he stepped into his room.

His first thought was that he stepped into the wrong suite. The room was _huge._ The bed had to be a king-sized on its own, and the desk was more a table than a small workspace. There was a silver fridge in one corner, matched with a dishwasher, and sink, _and_ a microwave. The floor was soft carpet up to the bathroom, where dark tiles spread. There was a flowery scent to the air, as if someone had delicately sprayed the doorframe of the door to be greeted with lavender every time they walked in. A welcome break from Mr. Wheezy’s stench, if he was being honest, but it still had his jaw on the floor.

And the view? The view was spectacular. Half the room’s back wall was a window, gazing over the back of the casino. The sights of Inkwell were observable if he strained hard enough. Looking up was the same; the roof was a window, barely visible in the black of night.

“Well?” King asked from behind him, and the man brushed past him to thoughtfully eye the suite. “Sheets are clean, windows aren’t covered in bird slag for _once_ – your stuff has not been moved up here yet by Mangosteen, I’ll get him on that tomorrow...” The Manager snapped around and spread his arms. “Good for ya?”

“Great, actually.” He blinked a few more times, in case he was hallucinating. He was not. “Are the other suites –”

“Like this? ‘Course. Wheezy may complain about his view, but it faces out to the patron suites and he’s always trying to flirt with them through the window.” King Dice shrugged with a chuckle. “Martini actually asked for a smaller one – too much space to do nothing in, she said. ‘Course, after gettin’ the smaller one she asked to switch back – view is too captivating for anyone to cough up.”

“Well.” He blinked a few more times, still in disbelief. “She isn’t wrong.”

Their conversation veered off from there. King shuffled stiffly as they stood in silence in the far too large suite, and that smile of his faded a few watts. The die clapped his hands together; the noise echoed loudly, and they both winced at the noise. “Ah.” King hummed delicately, and raised his eyebrows. “So.”

 _So. Now would be the best time to kick him out. Pleasantly, though, Mic. Pleasantly._ Of course, it didn’t go that way, and what came out was, “I should sleep.” _Ugh_ . That was rough around the edges and lacked all sophistication. He pointed to the bed, which made it all the worse somehow. “Love to stay up, though. But tomorrow’s first day. My _training._ ” _Training. What a goddamn idiotic way to put it._

“Oh, that’s right, ol’ chap - your _training._ ” King said absently, and his Boss started walking briskly to exit. The word was spoken as if useless, a bothersome concern. The man clearly was saying, ‘ _You don’t need training’_ in the most dismissive of ways. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

“G’night.” He maintained a gentleness on that word. “King.”

“Yes, yes - oh, one more thing.” King Dice span back, right before Suite 117’s door clicked shut.  “That boy you made a deal with? Devil’s spawn, he is. I’d avoid his kind. G’night, Mic.”

And the King shut the door with a snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's spelling errors, grammar mistakes or anything other than that, please let me know!


	3. a Talk (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my obsession with writing small chapters is gonna be the end of me.

_You keep an eye on those boys._

The main floor was still abuzz when King returned downstairs from Mic’s room – patrons still scattered like leaves amongst the brightly lit tables. Dealers joked wittily with their audiences as he strolled past them, few daring enough to glance up and make eye contact. Eyes seemed to follow him as he made his way across the slots, then past the tables; an air of interruption chased him as he cut through conversations and barged past betting tables. A waiter trembled as he brushed her, eyes straining anywhere but his face. “Sorry, King.” The girl whispered before he moved onwards.

It was unusual for him to be down here. Not because he was a slacker, but because it was a Monday, and he rarely stepped down from his office on Mondays. Mondays were slow, gave time for paperwork, granted him time to rest his head from the weekend. There was a quality to Monday’s at Inkwell: the employees enjoyed how he trusted them enough for him to step back and let them handle things. He enjoyed the break. That mutual benefit was shattered only when something terrible happened at the casino; either someone died, or caused so much of a ruckus that Mangosteen and Wheezy couldn’t take care of them and he had to deal with it.

That was not the case today. He sidestepped two more waiters, watching them freeze as they recognized him, and twitch. The newbies are the only ones undaunted by his appearance; twice, two barge into his path unrecognizing, and twice, they forget their apology. No matter. The only thing that mattered right now was the crying ache of his head to the light jazz floating over the crowd, the clicking of glasses as they hovered poised on balanced disks, the smack of chatter bubbling so fancy in the air of his Casino. Oh, yes, it was so very insisting in the pounding of his ears, and his grin began to hurt his temples.

He was not supposed to be down here after his appearance with Mic, and everyone was _afraid_.

Why was he down here? He could not tell. No, he could tell, blast the friggin’ taunting of his internal voice. He knew exactly why he was down here and not in his office, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise. It had something to do with that god-awful _stench_ that traced his office. It had to do something with the headache tracing his temples. It had something to do with that command.

 _You keep an eye on those boys_ , the Devil’s voice whispered again through his mind, and his hands involuntarily clenched.

The talk had not gone well.

“King.” A polite tip of the hat came from Chips as he swept by. The Pit Boss was farther from his post than normal, poised almost rigidly as he greeted him. There was an uneasiness nestled in the man as he made the gesture, but expertly concealed – the show of respect despite nervousness was considering. “Good night, ain’t it?”

“So it is, Chips.” He waved a hand, and did not stop. His legs kept walking, walking and walking until he found himself at the semi-full pub of the Casino, right in front of Whiskey. The tall bartender looked down, without a word, and then there was a glass sitting in front of him, chilled and frosty to the touch, the nice smooth liquid of Cognac right there. _Bless you, Whiskey._ His hand reached out for it, relieved.

It was somewhere around the sixth glass when Wheezy found him.

“I heard the King was down here.” The cigar didn’t bother to hide his insubordination, flicking ash onto the stool as his friend took a seat. “Drove straight down the slots and through the game rooms without a word.”

He took another sip of his sixth or seventh drink. The buzz in his mind hadn’t started too much, but at least the headache was gone. “Don’t know what bird you pried that outta, Wheez.”

“On the contrary, the birds came beggin’ to me in absolute terror.” A glass of Scotch skidded to a stop before Wheezy, and the cigar saluted Whiskey. “Thing’s must’ve been _bad._ ”

There was less patrons now than before. “Oh, come now, Wheez, you know –

“You’re still sealed, yes.” The cigar waved his own glass; he’s only had a few sips of his, Dice realized with a bit of guilt at his own binge. “Still sealed, and rolled up for His liking. I’m not pryin’, King.”

He went back to his drink, but somehow it was a lot less appetizing than before. Rich brown liquid stared up at him. _What are you doing?_ Came the unwanted thought, and he matched eyes with the liquid’s gaze. _It’s doing nothing. You’re doing nothing. Get a grip. His words weren’t that bad. Stop being a coward._

He pushed the glass away.

“I’m not asking for what he said to you.” Wheezy said. “Hell, he’s said a bunch of things to you, and I don’t need to be knowin’ ‘bout half of ‘em, but – King, for Christ sake. _You’ve been drowning yourself since_ –”

The talk had not gone so well.

“Every two days he’s shown up. After those shrimps appeared on staff with those ugly mugs of theirs. I know some people can pull the wool over my eyes at times, Dice, but I ain’t stupid.” Wheezy continued. “It’s to do with them.”

Not a question. He grinned a bit, even if panic rushed through him. “Right on the money like always, Wheez.”

“They’ve made a bet.” Wheezy started his Sherlock Homes investigation.

“Who hasn’t?”

“You’re involved.”

“Aren’t I always involved?”

Wheezy puffed at his cigar and paused. The Pit Boss always had a look when lost in thought, brows narrowed and head shining as if he was about to erupt into a cloud of ash and red-hot embers. That look crept across his face now, and King scorned himself for already revealing too much. _Shit on the Devil,_ he convinced himself as he smiled bitterly down at his drink, pretending that the stares of the casino were aimed elsewhere. _Wheezy keeps his tongue. He always does._

“Ah. Babysitting.” Wheezy concluded finally, and the burning of his embers lowered to a seething glare. “ _Spectacular._ ”

“I didn’t think they’d go challenge him.” He shot back, and threw back the rest of the Cognac.That was just showing off, really; Whiskey wandered near them to collect the now-empty glass, and retreat to his customers across the way. “Brats swallowed my tips up, ‘n used them against the Devil. Damn close match too, but Satan came through as always.”

“Then he pegs them on you.”

“Not so loud.” Wheezy just shrugged, and returned to his Scotch. “Perhaps he did. I was a fool to go trusting ‘em with anything.”

“You didn’t know they had eyes to go against the Big Man. Lay it off, King.” Wheezy hit him softly on the shoulder with a gloved hand. “Besides, I don’t think it was both of their decisions. Mugman has no spine. Boy could hardly tell a patron off without trembling like a _leaf_.”

“He still listens to his bro as if one ear’s attached straight to Cup’s noggin.” Their voices are still lowered. “I’m not calling quits, Wheez. Call me their Uncle, their goddamn Godfather, whatever – they’re my _friggin’_ responsibility now. You know what that means.”

“Contracts, I’m assuming.”

“ _Precisely._ Top of that, they got work at the Casino. Part-time greeters, smile and wave.” At least he remembered that part of the talk clearly. “Devil thinks that’s all they can do without causin’ mischief.”

“Mangosteen already had to pull the red one and a bent patron apart, so I’d be thinkin’ along different lines there.” Wheezy pointed out, and drained his Scotch. Then, as an afterthought, he pushed the end of his short cigar into the remaining juice, and popped the stick, mush and all, into his mouth. “Red seems to love fighting. Should put him in the ring and have that new guy announce it, mmm?”

“Satan would have my suit and the boxers underneath.” _And wouldn’t that put on a show for the Casino_. “I’d be stripping with the nightclub.”

Wheezy read his exact mind. “Don’t think anyone would be complainin’.”

Somehow, the words managed to make his grin a little more real. “That include you, Wheezy?”

“Dug myself into that one.” Wheezy dug in his pocket, and pulled out another cigar. However, this time it came with a partner. “Cigar?”

“Alright. Just this once.”

They left it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that plot i smell? oh dear, I'm getting into this.


	4. a mic and mango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be warned! i added a few more notes in the first chapter about the context of this story since I actually know what I'm doing now. Check them out!

“ _This_ is a microphone.”

Mic couldn’t recall when he had been more tired.

 _There had been a few times, actually_ , his mind cheerfully reminded him as he listened half-heartedly to the voice of the Manager. There was that time he spent two days working nights and refusing to sleep as a bartender of a cheap pub, only to crash for two hours of rest and get back up to do it again. Another time where sleep had forsaken him was that time he worked in favour of pulling all-nighters to please that prick of a Boss’ deadlines. Vague memories now, having waned amongst his recollections of half-assed jobs and shitty businesses. But they were there, and he figured that was enough a point to stop his laments.

The rap on the door had been the only thing that had woke him up – rather, it was the puncturing crack of knuckles against oak that had him up in a heartbeat, sprung from his bed as if Satan himself had booted him from the sheets. “Rise and shine,” a voice had called through the door, layered in a taunting sing-song that drifted more and more away as echoing raps continued down doors. Doors creaked open, groans rang out and one voice rang loud amongst them all, bitter and witty despite sleep slurring it.

“That’s five minutes too early, Mangosteen!”

And promptly Wheezy was hushed by other protesting mumbles.

The night had been a tossing and turning one. It wasn’t the bed, gracious no, the bed was like silk and satin with the softest mattress he had ever laid upon. Nor was it the noise of the Casino through the night; granted, he had heard some shouts and a few voices make their way down the halls at around 4 AM, but from thence the halls had been just faintly isolated from the jamming Casino floor. The glare of the night sky hadn’t been a bother either, and if he was being true to himself, he didn’t know why he couldn’t sleep. It had to have been just the readjustment to his new quarters, he mused. Those types of adjustments just made you feel like you were being watched by someone not there. Still, the feeling remained with him through the night, despite his reassuring search at 3AM just to prove his brain wrong that there were no cameras glaring at him, or hidden employees trying to pull a wiseass.

4AM had come and gone, and by that time he was too tired to deal with eyes watching him. Let them come as they may, he recalled thinking before flopping on the bed and crashing.

And, now here he was, orientation be damned.

“This is a microphone.” King Dice repeated, grin sharp enough to split a log down the middle. The Manager tapped down on the hanging mic, and turned around just as a _thunk_ echoed through the small room. “Mic for a Mikey. _Fitting._ Sure you’re familiar with the device, eh?”

 _He was way too tired to deal with this._ He gave King a look, and the die beamed back at him. “Messing with ya.” The Manager motioned with a practiced stress to their surroundings. There was something off about the die today; he seemed visibly distracted. “Well. Whatdaya think?”

His ‘office’ was...small. Not that that was particularly bad. It held quaintness; a desk sat behind King, nearly touched by two filing cabinets and a hanging microphone over where he presumed he would look out to the crowd. The leather chair looked homey. However, unlike the impression he received from his suite, in here an air of inhabitancy surrounded all; papers were scattered, barely peeking out from under the cabinets, and one wall was still covered in hasty scribbles of an unrecognizable handwriting. A half-full cup with coffee stains perched on one corner of the desk. The room looked as if the owner had picked himself up and left for a brief smoke break.

“It’s better than the last place.” He said simply to King’s curiousity, and picked up the mug. “This yours?”

“Eh?” King glanced down, and his face cascaded into a scowl at the mug, then to the notes and papers that tiled the floor. It seemed acknowledgement dawned on the die only now at the chaotic jumble of objects littering the place. The smile vanished almost immediately. “That’s still here? Well, ain’t that incompetent of the janitor.” A pause, and stiffness straightened the King’s back. “I told him to cleanse this area.”

“I can organize it.” _He’d cleaned up after previous owners in other jobs._

The King looked him in the eyes. “No,” and there was this awful undertone to that word, something that stank of wounded pride and directness. “I’ll get a fella up here before your shifts starts.” He put a hand out, and Mic stared until he realized the die meant for him to hand over the mug.

He placed the mug in the die’s gloved hands. The die took it and barged onwards in his irritation. “I’ll exchange that ugly desk for a spankin’ new one too: damn thing sticks out more than a bowling ball on the pool table.” King jerked his hand, and for a second there Mic envisioned coffee all over that purple tux. “I’ve had ugly sweaters prettier than that hunk of wood.”

He rooted around for a sentence that wouldn’t come off as rude. “King, I can handle –”

King stuck up a silencing finger to Mic’s lips, winking as he did so. “Of course ya can.” The die drawled good-naturedly to his bewilderment. “But I got a reputation to uphold.”

He couldn’t respond. He was a bit too busy trying to deal with the fact that King’s glove was just so slightly brushing his lips, just barely there and yet it was there, the smooth texture tickling the edge of his bottom lip. _Shush,_ the touch told him and he shut up, and his brain shut up alongside his mouth.

“I got a reputation to uphold.” King repeated, seemingly unaware that his listening companion’s mental capacity had ceased to function. The man lowered his hand, but he was still stricken dumb. “ _Bah –_ giving a newbie a filthy office? The Big Man’ll never let me hear the end of that.”

“Ah.” His mouth tried to work without assistance from his brain. “The Big Man.”

King either ignored his idiocy, or wasn’t listening at all. “You have yet to meet the Tipsy Troop.” The die pulled from nowhere, eyes glued to the mug. He took one hand and started tallying off fingers with the other wrapped around the mug. Coffee swayed dangerously. “Mangosteen...?”

 _Rise and shine,_ his brain managed. “He woke me up this morning. Didn’t actually catch him.”

“That right?” King’s eyes brightened, and the die snapped up to practically wrap an arm around his shoulders. An astonishing attempt too, because the die had to stand on tip-toes to get the arm at proper level with his shoulders. Finally, the Manager settled for a touch on his arm. “Mikey, ol’ chap, has Wheezy introduced ya to anyone else in the Casino?”

From the lips to the arm. He eyed the glove that had just been pressed against his lips and tried to focus on Dice’s question. “Only the Cup brothers.”

“Rascal.” King said, devoid of any hostility. The good-natured smile came back, but with a mischievous edge to it. The grin foretold ill-intended plans, or at least plans that would end with either him or King (mostly likely him) in a scrap-heap of trouble. At least, that’s what his gut told him would come of listening to the Manager. “Say, why don’t we head down and getcha introduced to some o’ the hardworkin’ lackeys ‘round here? I bet Wheezy’s told all things about you to ‘em.”

“More like he got rumours about me being a six-foot beanstalk.” His voice came out drier than sandpaper.

“Nah. Knowin’ Wheez, you’re probably a jock with muscles as big as tires and a ‘stache wider than Mango’s shoulders.” King retorted slyly with another wink. “After you, Mic-boy.”

He led them out of his office, and briefly he wondered if he could get used to this.

* * *

 

King was right. Mangosteen’s shoulders were huge. 

The hand was still lurking when they reached the abandoned pub, the slick fabric tickling through Mic’s sleeve and heat burning a hole through his arm. Yet, he did not stiffen; it must’ve been the casual way of how fingers brushed, barely touched, and King kept chattering away about the state of the Casino. “Mango’s usually in the Games, but I catch him lurking around here with Wheez during early hours.” The Manager cheerfully explained as he followed the man’s steps, setting a pace where the die wouldn’t be struggling too hard to keep up. “They like a bit o’ chatter before the patrons swarm in. Don’t blame ‘em –this place gets packed.”

Footsteps halted at the pub, and he peered over King. A few familiar faces greeted them there; Martini, if he remembered correctly from his application, and Wheezy, who had a platter of food-pickings put before him. There were three others, but unrecognizable to him; a massive eight-ball who dwarfed the others, and two stout bartenders. All were pulled up around a table right before the restaurant’s cashier. There was conversation, subdued and tranquil between them. Sunlight made the restaurant a haven of serenity, with the fragrance of bacon and breakfast to add on.

King’s hand twitched a bit at the sight. “Bless Rum’s giving nature,” was all he said.

“Ah, King!” The massive eight-ball raised a hand in greeting as they drew near, and the others repeated his action. There was an empty plate before him too, a smear of sauce still in its circle. Martini’s head snapped up to make eye-contact with him. Wheezy glanced up, and glanced down, apparently too invested in his meal for a hi. _Not surprising,_ he reflected. _Not surprising at all._

“Martini. Whiskey. Rum. _Mangosteen. Wheezy._ ” King Dice gestured to each, and that slight touch was gone. The emphasis on the last two names was embellished jokingly. “I expected to find you here.”

Wheezy blinked innocently up at Dice. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.” The cigar said slyly, and took another bite of his breakfast platter.

King turned to the bartender he had addressed as Rum. “I thought I told you not to feed these mooches until eleven.”

“They said they were starving.” Rum said softly; his voice was full of age, exactly how those elders who sneaked candies into their children’s hands when they thought the parents weren’t looking. The short bottle looked slightly guilty, but with the expression of a senior who knew exactly what he did wrong and did it anyways. “You know I don’t approve of breakfast being served to the staff at eleven.”

“You tell ‘em, Rum.” Wheezy said between bites. He couldn’t tell if the cigar was joking, or serious. “Bloody barbaric, the system. Should bring it up with the shift managers.”

“Be my guest,” King stated.

Wheezy looked up, and shut up.

Quiet fell thicker than the black of a midnight winter in the pub. Some patrons were staring over the mugs of their coffee, probably here just for the cheap meals and half-heartedly hoping for some escape from the dullness of life. He caught one glancing his way, and then back into their notebook, curled up in the corner with a pen. One inclined in their direction, and Whiskey stood stiffly, took a notebook from Rum with the smallest of smiles, and went to assist them. Awkwardness continued, and all of them rooted for a way to restart the conversation, find something that would be worth talking about.

The enforcer-styled eight-ball finally stretched. “Who are you?” The ball – _Mangosteen, he had to remember that –_ snorted. The sing-song voice was gone, replaced by another that similarly held a musical note, but gruffer. That would take some time to get used to. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

“I’m the new Announcer. Mic.” He thought back to last night. “If you didn’t hear Wheezy’s announcement yesterday.”

“Mic? You’re Mic?” Wheezy stifled a snort at that, and tried to cover it up with a cough. Ash fluttered down his coat, and dusted red with white. Mango barged on, blind to his friend’s falsetto. “You’re short.”

His brain didn’t give him enough time to formulate an appropriate response; nope, it skipped straight to wit. “And you’re loud.” He remarked, and the slickness of the sentence slid all around them in the quiet of the morning casino.

King stifled something. There was a choking sound from Wheezy. _Oh, great, there his mouth went off again._

The eight-ball didn’t even skip a beat. “This one’s leaking sass, King.” A pool club lifted from nowhere, and suddenly Mangosteen was prodding him in the chest softly. They were playing an old game, he realized; a bantering ping-pong of a subject, and he was the new ball putted back and forth between the family of the casino. “Where’d you find this snarky jewel amongst the commonfolk?”

King shrugged, an oddly quaint gesture in itself. It seemed to crease the tuxedo, just to flatten it out again. The crown pin adored to one of its lapels glinted in the sunlight. “I found him exactly where I found you, Mango,” slashed the silver tongue, almost dazzling in its teasing remark. “Just had to look down far enough.”

“And a deep gutter that was,” Wheezy added, and Mango gently elbowed his friend in mock wrath.

His face must’ve shown some amount of ill hidden confusion, for Martini took one look and her mouth at the corner perked up. “Ignore the bluffing oaf.” She explained as Mango slouched back in his chair. The wooden thing wobbled threateningly. “He’s still bitter that someone shoved him off the pool table again.”

Mangosteen took the bait, and sat up. “Now ain’t that a bunch of slander –”

“Martini, don’t be mean.” Rum chimed in, but he was smiling too.

Martini crossed her arms. “He _was_ furious though, and the amount of _pettiness –_ ”

“Petty? Me?” A laugh that almost chimed at the edges came from the giant. “I have never been petty in my life. Name one time I’ve been petty –”

“Boiling alley.”

“Crib.”

“Blackjack.”

“That one game of Go Fish you lost against Rum.” Whiskey swung by just to deliver that remark, and was gone before Mangosteen could open his mouth to defend himself. Martini was positively beaming now, and Wheezy had long lost battling his amusement to remain stoic. Rum had an air of pride around him.

“Ah, the Go Fish. They have a point,” King finished, and that sealed Mango’s fate, once and for all. A huff, and then the giant submitted.

“ _Rude._ ”

Before he could inquire exactly _what_ Rum meant by ‘ _losing Go Fish’_ , the conversation hit a barricade and crashed to a halt. A chiming noise turned out to be the source of that interruption; Dice jumped, fumbled for a second with something inside his jacket, and pulled out a gold-chained pocket watch shrieking out clicks. The man glanced and his eyes rolled back in his head as if a great inconvenience had emerged from the depths to destroy his day. “I must be off.” The Die apologized to them all; a few nods, Wheezy still powering through his breakfast. “Ah, but. Before I go, there’s a matter yet to be discussed.”

He noticed Wheezy had stalled in his breakfast. Whiskey paused from across the room, eyes upon them. It was as if no one dared to breathe until the die finished. King carried on with eyes focused on the watch, oblivious. “Mango! Since you and Mic are soundin’ so _fond_ of each other, why don’tcha give Mic a tour of the place?” The man flicked a hand. “Wake him up with a coffee or something.”

Mangosteen didn’t quite say anything or move, but something had Wheezy trying not to snicker again. King ignored it to look pointedly through him. “Mic, meet me here at twelve. King’s orders, both of ya.”

“Alright. It’s a da –” _No, not that. Not the word to use. Never the word to use._ “Ah, ah. I understand.”

“Gotcha, King.” Mango said. “Orientation. Don’t kill the newbie. _Gotcha_.”

“Good chaps.” The pocket watch gave another ringing noise, and Dice’s eyes rolled at bit more. “I must be off. G’morning to you,” and then the die hastily beat it from the pub, still holding that golden pocket watch as if it might bite him.

No sooner than King had dashed out of earshot Mango was standing, already beaming widely. “Mic, Mikey, looks to be you’re stuck with moi.” A sweep with the cane, and he wondered how many seniors the Pit Boss had accidentally taken out in his enthusiasm in the past. Probably a few. Better question was if they sued the Casino afterwards. “ _Le grande tour d'Inkwell Hell Casino_ , or something along those lines. I haven’t taken a French class since they forced it on me in ‘tots-school. Ya ready?”

“Coffee first.” Mango almost seemed childish now with the King away. “Remember King’s orders.”

“ _Oui,_ sassy newbie.” The pool club swiped back to Mango’s side. “Whiskey, a hand?”

So it ended up that they stumbled out of tranquility with twin mochas in hand a good twenty minutes later. “Follow me,” Mango stated before he marched up the stairs at an alarmingly fast pace, and _oh,_ he was going to regret being snarky with the eight-ball now.

And Wheezy’s voice broke through the door, and chased them up the stairs back to Floor 3, back to the starting point for the _Grand Tour_. So sly in its nature and whispered, the voice called to the short bartender still attending his meal, and drawled.

“...How did Mango lose to you in Go Fish?”

And Mangosteen walked faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daaaaaAAAAAAAAAMN AM I ACTUALLY FOCUSING ON OTHER CHARACTERS? MY GOD
> 
> and as always, feel free to point out grammar and spelling errors, or overall critiques of my work, i'm just tryna figure out how to write :D


	5. the Boss

The golden watch swayed before his eyes, taunt; held so delicately on that wrapped chain as it floated back and forth, a clockwork pendulum in the still room. The audience watched breathless; familiarity rang swift in the motions of the Boss as talon reached out to stop that movement, halt that consistency, ended the life of motion. The ticking arrow upon its dial read nine before it snapped shut.

“You’re late.” The Devil said.

He was not late. He had been a minute before, squeezed right in with that portal right in front of the throne. There had been no late, just on time. But the Big Man didn’t always like consistency. No, he liked earliest. He liked those who came first. He didn’t like regulars.

“The shrimps were later than me.” Short, brief. He didn’t like those who prattled. “Ya have nothin’ on me, Big Man.”

The Big Man looked down again at the watch, and flicked it open with one finger. A pause, and there was a click; the fatal announcement he had set for himself if he had ever dared to be late. He hadn’t had the opportunity to hear it upstairs yet. He hoped he wouldn’t hear it upstairs. “Later than usual,” the Devil admitted after examination, and flicked the pocket watch toward him as if it was a trinket.

He was always prepared to catch it. “The new arrival met your enforcer, Boss.” Watch was tucked back into a pocket. “Cut me some slack – I had to watch it.”

A snort. The Devil shifted, and that trident stumbled lower on his knees. The air grew a little lighter. “Mangosteen? That makes sense.”

And like that, he was forgotten at the side of the Devil again, as attention went to the audience. “Boys.”

“Boss.” Cuphead’s voice choked in its rage, stuttered the word. His hands were firmly in the tuxedos pockets, as if trying to wrestle them away from attacking the Big Man.

“Boss,” Mugman added, and his voice was underlined with murder just like his brothers. There was a multitude of sass that came with the next sentence. “Sorry for being late. We were...held up.”

The Devil was not pleased with that excuse. “By what?”

Cuphead took a hand out of his pocket, and he felt himself unconsciously stepping forward. However, no threat came to the movement; instead, the cup opened his fist to reveal a gleaming gold coin, shining in its worth. He already knew who the coin belonged to before the cup said it. “Mangosteen sends his regards,” the cup remarked, and flipped the piece to the Devil. The hand went back to the pocket.

The Devil caught coin between index and thumb, and gave it a thoughtful once-over. “He broke a vase again, didn’t he?” The Owner finally sighed.

“Well, sorta.” Cuphead said, less venom this time. “It was a mix between Mic and Mango, really.”

 _Mic._ What the hell was Mangosteen running him through on his orientation? Keep-Away with the flowers? “I had no part in this.” He said simply as the Owner looked for him in confirmation. It took all his will not to twitch into a wide grin. That _damn_ Mango.

“Ah.” The Devil pocketed the coin with a huff, and the trident rose a little higher as Satan readjusted in his throne. The topic was switched almost nonchalantly. “Boys. King Dice and I have talked.”

 _You keep an eye on those boys,_ came the intruding thought for the millionth time. He found it in himself to force a smile. “An ol’ friendly chat.”

The Devil continued on as if he hadn’t heard King’s tossed remark. Air seemed to darken around his tone. “You’re probably wondering why I haven’t taken your souls yet.”

 _Tick, tock._ Cuphead and Mugman shuddered, and with synchronization, took a step back. His grin became a little easier to force at the slackened jaws of the brothers. _That was a look that definitely fit Cup’s face better than that wicked grin,_ his brain snorted, perhaps a tad too haughtily sinister. _Fear. Better than that cocky ass sneer, the cheeky little buggers. Attaboys, be frightened now, ‘cuz the Big Man’s gonna show you a good ol’ time, you lucky little devils._

His Boss raised the trident. “We’ve decided –”

* * *

  _“I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”_

_“Ha! Bet those slackas’ won’t even get all o’ the contracts before midnight.”_

_“About that.”_

_“Ha – ha...what, Boss?”_

_“I gave them seven years.”_

* * *

 “ – You have seven years.” Words came slick, indifferent. He thought of Wheezy, who probably had indifferently made his way up the stairs by now, and situated himself in front of his office door, a guard to their meeting. He thought of the discussion they had had last night, the taste of rich smoke from the offered cigar his friend had given him. He thought of anything but the Devil’s words. He tried hard to block them out.

Mugman had the audacity to look shocked at the Devil’s sudden gratitude. “Se – seven years?” He blurted out, and caught up to his tongue quickly with a ramble. “I mean – praise your mercifulness, and kind be your demands, but –”

Cuphead said what was truly on everyone’s mind. “That’s _bullshit._ Next you’ll be tellin’ us we’re free to go.” The cup puffed out, and shoved hands deeper in pockets. “Where’s the catch, big guy?”

* * *

  _“And you’re still holding me on that bet? Devil, that’s– they’ll be able to seduce god damn Gabriel from Heaven’s rein with that time span! Seven years? Ya want to let them free?”_

_“No, no. They’ll be too busy working at the casino to have time to collect souls.”_

_“...They’re working where now.”_

_“The casino. Lackeys. I’ve already added them to the employee list and given them a suite. Tuxedos, too. You know how small those pipsqueaks are? Tailor thought I was hiring kids now.”_

* * *

 “You’ll be working under the King here, boy.” Not even a change in tone, gruff and bitter and so, so frigid. A grand gesture to him finally recognized in the corner, and he tried that grin to be a bit wider.

“That be me, and I’ll be callin’ the shots.” Unwillingly, of course. He didn’t need two more employees, nevermind the cheating rats. He waved a hand graciously, anyway. “Got two open positions on the bottom – you’ll be anything the Casino needs, waiter to janitor, 10 AM to 4 PM, all week, Saturdays and Sundays _included_ , thank ya.” At the shocked expressions of the two, he added a wink. “Work hard enough, and I might think about lettin’ ya off an hour or two early, Cup.”

“That’s bull!” Mugman protested. Cup looked too stunned for words. “We can’t collect the contracts and work for you, that’s too much!”

“You’re young. You’ll find a way.” Hell take him if he found himself being lenient to those brats.

* * *

  _“King, King, it’s just seven years.”_

_“Just seven years? You’ll let them off seven years, seven years to roam around just plannin’ to stab ya in the back? You’ll let them have free rein of everything? Free rein of **my** casino?”_

* * *

 “Dice.” And the malicious tone was back, just so tucked under that casual tone. “10 AM to 2 PM. Remember.”

* * *

  _And the air had gotten quiet – oh, so, so quiet._

_“Dice, this is my casino and if you think for a second that it is yours, you **immeasurable good for nothing lackey,** you can kiss your soul and career goodbye **, you miserable little** –”_

* * *

 “Ah. My bad. A slip of the tongue.” Not really. “10 AM TO 2 PM. That’s right.” He stared down at the two brothers, and tried to hide his irritation. “10 AM to 2 PM. You lucky boys.”

Cuphead looked to him, and then the Devil. Something flashed over the employee’s face, and vanished just as quick. “So I report only to you?” The Cup asked him, scorn barely masked.

“No, no, no. I’m not the only one you’ll be working for, lad. Every Pit Boss is above you. Every Casino member can tell you to do something. You’re at the bottom of the hierarchy.” He felt his eyebrow twitch, and resisted the urge to punt the cup across the room. “Bottom of the pond.”

“You have one other boss to choose to report to,” the Devil added, purring as if this news was icing on top the cake. “Think wisely.”

“Oh.” Mugman said, and thought for a moment. “Wheezy.”

“Oh,” the Cup said, and barely even paused. “Mic.”

_Hell no._

“Done.” The Devil said with a vicious smile.

 _Oh, hell no_.

When the two brothers had exited the throne room was when he turned around, inhaled, and thought very quickly of a polite way to voice his disagreement. “Mic,” was what he started with, placing his hands together. “You let him with Mic.”

“Mmm.” The Devil took Mango’s peace offering out again, and eyed the coin as if it was false. The trident switched between hands. “And?”

“It’s Cuphead,” he managed to say without any underline of sarcasm, anger or that good ol’ fashioned frustration. “Cuphead. Boy who you nearly lost the Casino to – ah, you know. The _cheater._ ”

“You taught him to cheat, you pay the price.” Coin flipped up, and coin went down. “Besides, you can keep a close eye on Mic. You’ve been doing so already.”

Ah. So he had noticed that. “Professionally speaking, yes.” He retorted. “He’d be the new Announcer you hired outta the blue. He'll need a bit o’ looking after. Can’t just throw him to the dogs.”

His explanation proved to be enough. “A good announcer too. Should’ve heard him at the pub, voicing a fight.” Satan almost sounded fond. “Glad I picked him up. How’s he adjusting?”

“Wheez likes ‘em.” Wheezy was probably still standing outside his office door, getting told by Mugman he had to look after the squirt. “Mango does too. Fits like a fiddle in the big ol’ gang.”

“And those tuxs I sent up to his room better fit him like a fiddle too.” Satan scoffed, and made to stretch. The Devil stood up, and dropped his Trident to the side; it swished downwards and then vanished before hitting the floor, poofed up in the air as if it hadn’t existed at all. “What time is it?”

Familiarity returned, alluring. “It’s time we’re leavin’, Boss.” He was already at the exit, caught patiently at the grand doors that separated Casino from Hell. There was one thing he had almost overlooked. “...Will you be visiting Mic?”

“Later.” The Devil dismissed. Implications raised from the next words, an after-bite to them that he couldn’t quite place. “He’s all yours for now, Dice.”

  _You lucky son of a gun, Dicey-boy. Lucky, lucky, lucky._

“Got it, Boss.” And the leap from stench of Hell to the bickering of Wheezy's voice, hollow outside his office, was comforting. “If I can tear him away from Mango, that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well slap me sideways and call me a parry, i think im getting somewhere.


	6. a ripped soul

They had done three laps around Floor 3. They had circled Floor 2 twice. They had cracked down on a cheating patron _‘because he had been bad at keeping it down low’_ on Mango’s insistence, and had strolled outside for a view of the courtyard. That was all before Mango decided the tour had actually started, and by that time, Mic had a pretty good idea of what the layout of the Casino was, (even though he was still sure his ass was going to end up lost in the attic). Sadly, he couldn’t talk his way out of the inflicted torture of orientation though; the Enforcer dragged him back to the Managers office – “The tour’s barely started, Mikey!” – and so Mic found himself staggering after the way-too smug eight-ball to ‘ _explore’_ the offices of the employees.

Wheezy’s office ended up the first office they visited, and Wheezy’s room was glorious. Notepads were organized neatly on the desk right smack in the middle of the room, accompanied by a glass of feathers trimmed sharply and freshly made ink potted for later use. There was stamp slid on one corner of the desk, and a big ruler on the other; stains of black just faint on the desk showed where Wheez’s hand had slipped, or accidentally tipped over the bottle of ink. A huge typewriter sat amongst the clustered top of the desk, shining silver. The floor was a bit stained in some areas; unlike the other offices, it was hardwood, and polished. Everything stank of cigar; a rich, overpowering stench that could have those weak-stomached gagging.

Mic was not weak-stomached. He took a deep breath. _Smelt like smoked wood,_ a part of him mused. _Friendly smell._

Mango waltzed in the office as if he owned it; the swagger of his hips exaggerated as he turned, made a huge stretching gesture and sank back into the smaller, yet still cozy looking duplicate of King’s chair behind Wheez’s desk. “Welcome to Stop #1,” the eight-ball said, and materialized that pool cue out of nowhere again. “Look upon the sights of a cigar’s misery and pain for five hours a day. Love that _paperwork_.”

“This is Wheezy’s?” It was...neater than expected. A part of him figured the floor would be covered in soot.

“I thought the smell would give it away.” Friendly, the voice slapped on a bit of mockery. “Yeah, it’s Wheez. Look at this mess. The cards are gonna slap him into the ocean for leaving the paperwork like this.” Mango poked the paper sticking slightly off the desk and gestured for him to come over. “He always leaves half the sentence missing. It drives the shift managers’ nuts.”

He read the incomplete paper over Mango’s proud expression, which just consisted of a bunch of nonsense numbers and tracks on debts. Tracing digits down, the slanted writing of the cigar ended before the final box, left untouched by the swish of ink. “And he’s not going to calculate the final sum?”

“Nah.” Mango propped the cue up against the table, and slunk a bit more into the chair. “He loves driving them crazy. Satan knows they drive him absolutely crazy.”

“I’m surprised King doesn’t do anything about this.” It came off a bit more sarcastic than he intended it; the Casino was big, after all, and Wheezy looked like the type of employee who’d hide a few spare details behind King’s back. “Or does he even know?”

Mango snorted, and waved a hand attached to the cue. “His Highness is too busy sometimes to notice, and when he does, he usually laughs it off. The cards hate ‘em for that. Don’t mention him when you see ‘em.”

“Alright.” Mic said, and wondered what Mango meant by _‘cards_.’ “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was something off about the room. He turned again, eyeing the walls. The painting hung on the far wall was not crooked. The lone banner on one side wasn’t either. It had to be the cabinets; there was no other objects in the room that were bugging him, it had to be the cabinets –

Ah. That’s what it was.

A dent – barely noticeable – sat snugly in the wall, poking out from behind a huge oak cabinet.

“Wheezy smash a shift manager’s face in here, or does every office come with a personalized mark?” He gestured.

Mango looked up again, squinted, and then blinked widely. “Ah.” Was what he said. “That.”

The dent was rather Mango head-sized, if he looked at it a certain way. “Did Wheezy smash your face in here?” A mental image reminded him of the height differences. “If so, remind me never to tick him off.”

“No. I mean, yes, sorta. Not really. Damn, Wheezy forgot to move the cabinet back.” Mango shot up, hit the desk with his thigh, fumbled with the pool cue. A swipe with both hands, and the Enforcer had the stick under control.

Though as the cue was swiped up by large hands, the butt end flew mischievously upwards with a taunting _‘SWICK’,_ and with a horrible crack the ink bottle that had been minding its own business at the other end of the desk found itself smacked into the air. Time seemed as if to pause; Mango flung cue aside to uselessly grab towards the soaring ink bottle, and missed.

 _There were pros and cons to having an open ink bottle on your desk at all times_ , Mic thought as the ink bottle went soaring over him.

And with a medley of _splat_ , _crack_ and _slap_ , the bottle hit the wall and filled the room with its music.

Ink dripped down the dent. Ink had splattered onto his clothes. Ink had hit the ceiling, and a lone black drop had managed to defy physics and stain Mango’s collar. And with the explosion of ink came the deadliness of silence; the sort of tension a young boy would expect as he anticipated his parents seeing what he had done. He turned back to meet Mangosteen’s eyes as they both contemplated whether to book it or not.

“What the hell,” Cuphead’s voice said from the doorway.                                   

“Shit.” Mangosteen said.

* * *

  _Pocket the coin_ , Cuphead’s thoughts helpfully supplied as they crossed the hall to King’s office. There Wheezy loyally stood at wait in front of those double doors, a lone soldier to solitude and the puffs of smoke that trailed through the early lights of morning. He eyeballed them as they came closer. _You don’t owe anything to those two. Pocket it. It’s yours. Let them take the blame._

As if his brother could hear his thoughts, Mugman put a hand on his shoulder. “No.” The mug stated firmly, as if he wasn’t partial to collecting a bit of self-deserved money sometimes too. “Don’t, Cup.”

“It’s right here.” He waggled the coin between fingertips. “I don’t recall ever owing them anythin’.”

“True. But Mic already owes ya for the bet ya made yesterday. And Mic’s,” a pause, “sorta friends with Mangosteen.”

“You don’t even know that.”

“Shut up.” Mugman pushed him softly on the arm as Wheezy watched them. The cigar let them pass as they squeezed through, all whilst puffing away threateningly on that cigar. “Brother, the Big Cheese told us to watch it, to walk carefully. You’ve been trampling all over ta’ place. He ain’t gonna be happy if he heard ya be **cheatin’**.”

And there was the word again. He looked at the coin once more, thought better of it and closed a fist around the temptation. “Fine.” He snorted, and they paused right at the trapdoor leading to Hell. “You better explain to the Cheese-Man why we’re late though.”

“If you insist. You think the big ol’ eyes would work?”

“Not against the fursuit. You know that shit only works on Elder.”

“Bugger.” Mugman adjusted his tie. “Begging it is. You gotta sneak a coffee for me later.”

“If I remember.”

And they went down to Hell.

* * *

 “It was all his fault,” Mango said to King when the die stepped into the office, barely giving the Manager the time to breathe before setting on him with excuses. “I did nothing.”

“If I recall correctly it was your hand that swept said cue.” He was not being thrown under the bus like that. “And I wasn’t the one demonstrating their ability to hit a home run.”

 King looked up. King looked down. King put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the disaster of ink everywhere.

King breathed in.

King released a hiss of air between his teeth, and said quite tiredly, “Well, at least it wasn’t the ceiling this time.”

“For the record, that was misdirection, misguidance, and an interruption from an onlooker that led to that.” Mango recited back just as quickly. “Witnesses can explain that it was a horrific accident. I have no idea how I ended up there.”

King just looked ever more tired (and amused) at that. “Hopus kicked you.” A movement of his hands indicated a scenario where a launched object rapidly accelerated upwards, and then became one with the ceiling. “You got stuck. The end.”

“It wasn’t just like that –”

“In all due respect, Mangosteen, it was misdirection that had a nice window shattered last month,” a new voice drawled from behind them. Mango froze and shot up as if someone had taken a cattle-prod to his back. “Don’t worry, of course – that was an old window, just like how this room has old wallpaper. And, hmm. I don’t remember that dent being part of the building when I created it, neither an accident report submitted for it. Was your _home run_ that efficient, Mango?”

Mangosteen looked as if he thought the fall from Wheezy’s window was very appetizing now. Speech that had been cleverly teasing reverted back to that of a child’s. “Boss. Ah. Hello.”

“Oh, lay it off of the Enforcer, you’re makin’ him tremble.” And King’s voice sounded cold; humorous, but frigid. He had no idea what was going on. “He gets scared easily.”

“A shame.” The voice stepped forth.

The beast...wasn’t wearing anything. Not that there was anything to cover up in that fur – but the nakedness was still very apparent, and very demanding. The ceiling became interesting. “The coin was an appreciative gesture,” the nude beast murmured in that silky, low voice; a flip of a talon brought out shimmering gold, and the Enforcer’s petrified body slackened in relief. “I haven’t seen this one before in your collection.”

“I’ve collected a few more.”

“You’ll have to bring me to see them again sometime.” The beast’s voice changed; gruff became cheerily smoother, husky shot a few hair-raising octaves upwards. Mic noticed Mugman in the corner, nose wrinkled as the midget backed off. “Once this mess is _fixed_.”

The undertone was as subtle as a plane crashing. “Yes, Boss.” Mango hastily stuttered.

Boss turned to him, and red eyes stared directly through him. He felt goosebumps already begin to stir – his heart skipped a beat, and then that stare was gone, replaced by something much friendlier. “Mic, was it not?” The naked beast held out a hand. “Welcome to the family.”

“Yes, and glad to be part o’ it.” He didn’t hesitate in taking the offered hand.

A sting. No, it wasn’t a sting when he took Boss’ hand; it was more a pull, an aching _yank_ that tore through him. It surged through his whole being and flared back rapidly, flexed through muscle and shifted bones. Sour rose in his mouth; a bitter, after-taste flavour that had him choking back gags – his eyes screamed to the point of water, heart skipped three times, and he stood, shocked as his left arm was pumped up and down three times.

And then Boss let go of his hand, still smiling his toothy grin, and the feeling was gone.

 _Once, twice, triple and deal,_ a part of him muttered.

 “Though my suit begs otherwise.” He continued, voice a bit shaky but otherwise fine.

“Ah.” Eyes fell down to stare at his ink-splattered clothes. “Well, you’re in luck. You’ll find a nice surprise waitin’ in your Suite if someone,” and a side glance shot King down, “Has had the time to _send_ it. Haven’t you, Dice?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yes.” King flexed his left hand. “Of course.”

“Good man.” Boss looked back at him; eyes tore into him again. Then the beast walked off towards the exit.

But before he made it, a claw reached to take King by the shoulder. Words were exchanged; quiet, low. Then a laugh barked from King, though Mic recalled it sounded a bit grittier than the few he had heard yesterday. Boss sneered that smile again, patted King’s shoulder once and set off again at that leisurely stroll.

“Be seeing you, Mic.” The voice said with a touch of pride, and left.

_What._

Mangosteen’s shoulders heaved downwards as he took a shaky breath. “Why didn’t you tell me he was – King, oh I could’ve, that was,” another shaky breath, and the eight-ball shut up with a few more inaudible whispers.

King snorted, but something was off about the colour of his eyes again; they were murky, almost swamp water green. “Tighten yer slacks, ball-boy.” The voice almost came off teasingly, except for the lil’ hitch in the middle. “He’s antsy.”

“Who?” He managed to convey all emotions in his confusion. “Who? _What?_ ”

“That’s Boss,” Mango and King said simultaneously, and did not care to elaborate. Lovely.

“It’s twelve, sirs.” Mugman’s voice cracked from down below; Mango nearly yelped and knocked over Wheezy’s whole desk this time. King didn’t even flinch as a ruler clattered next to him. “Lunch break.”

“Ah, shit, Wheezy.” Mangosteen realized aloud.

“Better start scrubbing.” And with a click of heel, King spun a 180 to the exit to abandon the poor eight-ball to the cigar’s wrath. “Care to join me for lunch, Mic?”

He had almost forgotten about their arrangement. “Yes, of course – I’ll just need to,” and he gestured to himself. God, Wheezy’s ink even reeked of smoke. “With your _forgiving_ permission –?”

King’s eyes perked up, and the man nodded, but not without a chuckle. “Yes – go ahead. I’ll meet ya in the lounge. Shoo.”

 _Yes, the lounge_ – He patted an empty pocket. _Where was his room card._ Kept on patting his pockets. _Not there, not there; damn, did he leave it in his room or –_

“Heya, Boss,” Cuphead greeted, flipping Mic’s room card lazily in his fingers. “Look what I found.”

And, with a sinking feeling, Mic wondered if he ever had ten bucks in change to spare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip ink, 2017
> 
> also, mmm. i wonder what the devil took from mic when he shook his hand. jolly gee, i woooonder. =]


	7. Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a late merry christmas to those who celebrate it.
> 
> here's to another chapter.

“He’s coming,” hissed Mugman. “ _Hurry_.”

The scrubbing intensified as footsteps drew closer. Mugman inched in front of the door, and planted his feet, a guard doomed to fall once the whistling of a cigar stopped. Sunlight gathered, interested, around the door; dust settled through the air to carpet. Everything paused, and watched curiously as the inevitable fate of the man behind the door was set to action.

The trail of smoke halted before the doors.

“Git, squirt. I got paperwork to do.”

“Sir, you really ought to send me on an assignment.” Mugman said, firmly. His voice didn’t shake. Did not at all. “I insist.”

“No.”

“Sir, I really insist –”

“Mugman. Let me into my office.”

“But, sir, I do insist on the assignment. I really ought to have one, considering I’m your new assistant –”

“ _Mugman._ What’s this slag about?”

“Nothing, sir! I mean, it’s about – jobs, yes it’s about jobs. Nothing more.”

There was a loud crash as the doomed employee’s trembling hands let go of the water bucket, and collapsed to the ground, still scrubbing frantically.

“What was that.”

“Nothing, Sir. Nothing. I assure you, that was probably a bird crashing into a window or something of natural causes.”

Knees were buckling together now, and the rag slipped from the employee’s hands to hit the floor with an audible ‘splat.’

“What’s that noise? Is someone in there who ain’t supposed ta be?” Harsher, louder grew the voice. “Move. Mugman. _Mugman, move or I’ll have you scrubbing toilets until the Big Man rips your soul from your corpse, get –“_

The door swung open. Mangosteen shot away from the ink disaster as if slapped sideways by a cattle prod. He had taken off his tuxedo coat, and rolled his sleeves up; water soaked the front of the white shirt, and clung to the enforcer tighter than a cheapskate at the machines. The grin he gave the cigar was edged in fear.

“Hiya, Wheez.” The guilty eight-ball greeted. “So. There might have been an accident.”

There was an unbearably loud pause. Wheezy’s cigar nearly slipped from his loose lips as he eyed up the splattered room, and then the half-undressed eight-ball; his eyes went from chest to hands to the dent still uncovered from behind the cabinet. Droplets of soapy water and bubbles were splashed on the floor around the water bucket, some faintly on Mango’s shoes. The rag was below the accident, stained in ink, yet there was no noticeable difference to the wall or splattered cabinet.

A gloved hand reached up to the cigar perched dangerously loose in Wheezy’s lips, and plucked it gently away. It was caressed carefully between fingertips, exchanged between hands, rolled and stopped between index and thumb. Silence followed the show of tricks; a hot ember flickered airily up from the cigar’s head, and gnawed away at polish when it hit the floor.

“Ah,” Wheezy said, and pinched his fingers together hard. Ashes belched forth from the tortured cigar, and merrily, Wheezy dropped it, stuck an expert foot over the remains of the expensive cigar, and grounded it into the hardwood floor.

The eight-ball gulped quietly, and awaited death.

“Mugman. Go get yourself a coffee.” Wheezy said, voice too cheerful compared to eyes that spelt out murder. “Ah, and close the door behind you. Locked. Thank you.”

Mugman opened his mouth to protest on Mangosteen’s behalf, looked at the crushed cigar on the ground still sizzling, thought better of it, and did what Wheezy asked. The eight-ball didn’t even have a chance to mouth ‘ _help’_ before his only hope fled through the door.

The bolt locked. Wheezy advanced.

A shudder went through Mangosteen, and the Enforcer stood up so rapidly he nearly knocked the water bucket over. His voice failed him; instead, hands gestured vaguely in explanation as Wheezy stared his guilty ass down, taking one step at a time. “God, I – it was an accident, truly, it was,” and voice cracked, butt hit the edge of the splattered cabinet and that soaked shirt clung a bit more onto that chest. “I was showin’ Mic, and then – the ink bottle flew, and I couldn’t – god, _Wheezy_ , I’m sorry –”

If ashes could growl, Wheezy’s did. A thrum of something wicked went through the cigar, and the shorter employee stopped right in front of the Enforcer. One eyebrow slowly inched its way up. “ _Don’t_ say that,” Wheezy’s voice cracked, low and wrathful, and with something _approving_ mixed in.

“What?” Mangosteen’s face flickered a bit confused, a bit amused, a tad grateful that his rambling had stalled his demise. Familiar posture shifted into cocky positioning, and cocky positioning led to Wheezy slowly shifting one shoulder out of one end of the fur coat. “I’m sorry?”

“You know what you said.” A puff of smoke came from Wheezy’s lips; _burning already,_ a thought whispered, but they both waved it away.

“Do I?”

The jacket was draped over the desk.

“Oh, you _know._ ”

“What do I know, _Wheezy?_ ”

One gloved hand, stained faintly with ash and rigid in wrathful passion, got close and pulled that tie down.

“ _Shut. Up._ ” The cigar spat, lunged forward, and the ink was forgotten for the rest of break.

* * *

“I’m awfully sorry about Mangosteen,” was how King started the meal off. He had already made himself comfortable, his three-piece suit reduced to just a vest and shirt combo, jacket hung lovingly over a nearby wooden chair. There was a fond grin upon his face. “He’s an absolute mess in mornings – clumsier than a clown, poor chap. Are you goin’ to sit, or gawk all day?”

 _Oh, shut it._ He sat down. “It’s gotten crowded.”

“Newbie.” King teased, and waved a hand to a nearby waiter. “This ain’t crowded. Just you wait til Saturday. By the by,” and a trailing pause followed his words, “...Nice _suit_.”

 _God, so he had noticed. Shit._ He found his fingers were absentmindedly playing with the collar, and flushed at his mortification. “It was the only one,” he flubbed as King eyed him up and down, admiring the exact replica of the die’s suit he had worn only yesterday. “There was no more...is this an uniform or have I completely ripped your style off?”

“Nah, no uniforms here. You’re completely stealin’ my look. Thief.” A waiter cut through the crowd and made his way to them. “I can’t believe Boss hired a god-damn criminal.”

There was a difficulty in telling if King was being serious or not without a foretelling smirk to judge the sentence by. There was a pause as silence filled between them; he waited  if the die was kidding until an eyebrow perked up and a jeering smirk showed off shiny teeth. “Gotcha.” The die’s voice practically hummed the words, and he swore a part of the eavesdropping crowd shivered as the die trailed off with a husky chuckle. “I don’t mind. Find it hilarious, actually. Purple suits ya.”

“Why, thank you,” he retorted with a bit of his own grin. God, King’s smiles were _contagious._ “I’ll make to wear it constantly, then.”

“Oh, really? In that case, it’s hideous,” King snorted, and the waiter halted at their matching grins.

 

“Rum, why didn’t you serve those two?” Martini asked as the three Pit Boss’ eyed across the room, where a poor flustered waiter took orders from the two identical grins. The Tipsy Troop enjoyed a shared grin as the waiter hurtled past them into the kitchen, shouting orders as he did so. _The King’s usual,_ was the identical thought, and when the waiter shouted for double plates, mutual admiration at Mic’s boldness to order the same meal grew as well. “King likes it when ya serve him.”

“They’re getting along so well,” Rum said with the wisdom of an elder who knew all the secrets of perfecting a lunch date, and the gimmicks that would smooth one along. The drink spun the tray in his hands, and handed the food off to another unfortunate waiter. “An ol’ geezer like me would stall that up. Nah, let ‘em enjoy this meal together.”

King’s laugh was audible from across the room.

“...I think we’re going to like this Announcer,” Whiskey murmured with a touch of hope, and their shift went on to the music of Dice’s mirth.

* * *

 

Mugman went downstairs, and got himself a cup of coffee.

“Eya, Mugs,” greeted Chips when the small assistant wandered past, leaning over his station to push his hat up. “Where’s Wheez? The cards came by and asked if he was done that paperwork. Is he doing it?”

“Oh, he’s doing something all right,” Mugman said, and sipped his coffee.

“Oh,” Chips said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...slow burn whomst? i only know the speeds of light, tf


	8. cowboys and contracts

“Don’t call him _smelly,_ ya ol’ fart.”

Lunch was over. King and Cuphead had taken their leave – with a bit of over-exaggeration on Cuphead’s part. He was getting a bit too much into the role of assistant already, Mugman noticed over the brim of his coffee. Had even the grovelling bit down. Timidly, his brother stepped behind King and oozed nervousness; however, one hand was pressing against his hip and Mugman caught the wink his brother sent him across the room. _Sneaky ass._

Mic had opted to join them. That had almost caused him to spit take – the microphone had somehow materialized behind them all with curiousity twinkling behind half-lidded eyes. The remnants of a smile from lunch were still on his face. Sliding into a stool, the tall man waved a goodbye to King and joined the conversation without a break between sentences.

Mugman didn’t miss how the Tipsy Troop glanced at each other.

The conversation had barged on, regardless of the newbie’s presence or not. It had started innocent enough, just Chips complaining about Wheezy’s inability to submit paperwork – _ink,_ he thought at that and almost had to choke back a laugh. Then the teasing had started, and now Mic and him were surrounded by nostalgic seniors, all reminiscing about their past.

And, _boy,_ did they have some stories to tell.

“I wasn’t callin’ him that, I wasn’t.” Points were placed, and banter was settled into a familiar movement; Chips placed both elbows on the counter and beamed across it to Dot. “He’s just a tad, _yanno,_ ” and the cowboy shrugged with the most bull-shitting smile stretched across his face, “ _Fume-y_ when he gets worked up, all I’m saying.”

“Ya called him _smelly,_ bull-boy.” Pip backed Dot up all the way through. A finger was pressed into the granite counter. “You be subtle as a brick.”

“Aye, aye now, don’t you twist your suspenders my way. You call him that all the _time,_ ” sniggered the cowboy. Pirouletta behind them rolled her eyes, but kept on listening. “Quote by quote, let’s hear the wisdom of Pip: _‘He’s our smelly, stinky ol’ cigar-breath. Couldn’t run shit without him_.’”

“Aye, and I was drunk outta my mind that night, with half my wits hangin’ round my ankles.” Pip snorted. Mic seemed to be caught on every word. “You don’t call him cigar-breath without having half your ass already stuffed in the gutter.”

“Damn right.” Dot plucked the toothpick out of her teeth, and scrunched her nose up at Chips. The smile shared between all three troublemakers glinted mischief. “Say, where’s the ol’ fart anyway?”

“Upstairs,” Mugman said before Chips could open his mouth. “Him and Mango are.”

A few raised eyebrows. Pirouletta coughed.

“He’ll be busy for a bit.” He added.

“Ah. A shame.” Pip tried to finish the conversation.

It was a shame that Mic hadn’t gotten the hint. The newbie spoke almost softly; it was gentle, innocent talk that hadn’t been corrupted by Mugman’s mental image of whatever the _hell_ those two were up to. Hopefully not breaking any more walls. “Busy?” and, with the dawning realization of the incoming wall of _awkward_ this conversation would soon turn into, Mugman considered putting aside his coffee and making a run for it. _Ah,_ he wouldn’t make it in time. “Is he destroying Mangosteen for staining up his wall?”

“He did what now?” Whiskey scoffed from behind Chips; the cowboy moved just enough that the older man could join the conversation.

“Showin’ me around. Turned into a bit o’ batting practice with the pool cue he has.” Mic shrugged, almost nonchalant. He seemed very keen on staring straight at him while talking, which Mugman did not like in the slightest. “Ink went _ka-plat._ Mugman saw the whole thing, he could tell ya.”

Heads snapped over to him. The coldness of the coffee suddenly became very appetizing. Oh, tasted good too. Glaring at Mic the whole time, he tipped glass up and downed part of his frigid drink.

Dot was a doll, and answered for his awkward ass. “Well, they’re _busy,_ ” she said with an emphasis. “I ain’t buggin’ them. Hell, Mugs’ probs has orders not too.” She gave him a nice piercing glance too, one that stabbed right through him to play along. “Right?”

“Absolutely.” He tipped his coffee back once more. He didn’t even like coffee.

Chips lived up to his reputation, and barged on like he was a locomotive powered by sheer obliviousness. The Pit Boss put a hand to his forehead, and heaved one breath. “Lesson one of Devil’s Casino, Mic. Knock.” An eye looked at Mic through those fingers covering the chips’ face. The voice was almost in pain. “Learn to _knock.”_

Subtext was present like a brick to the face. “Ah,” Mic said. His fingers tapped on the counter, once. “I understand.”

“Seriously.”

“He gets it, Chip.” Dot was covering her face in her hands.

“Well, I’m makin’ sure he gets it all to pieces, Dot.” Chips said. “He oughta know them two have been up each others – ah, well, they’ve known each other for a long ass time.” The cowboy cleared his throat. “Very long.”

That perked up Mic’s attention. “How long?” The microphone asked.

All four seniors suddenly seemed to be interested in a particular part of the Casino. Chips gave a nervous laugh, and forgot how to speak. Dot and Pip suddenly were very invested into their glasses of water. Whiskey careened off into the kitchen to ‘ _take care of business’._

Pirouletta was left as the only one to answer Mic. “Well, they’re known each other for a bit.” She said, and finally decided to become part of the conversation. A stool was hauled over counter and given to her by Chips. Heaven knew how long she had been standing there torn between leaving, and intrigued by the roasting of Wheezy. “King and Wheez knew each other longer.”

“Oh?” It was a gradual shift; Mug couldn’t tell if Mic was readjusting in his chair, or genuinely startled. Emotions that clearly shown on Chips’ face were a stark contrast to that neutral expression the newbie held like stone over his face – it was as if those eyebrows couldn’t move until the man blinked. “How long exactly?”

Whiskey interrupted all their focus on Pirouletta by pulling up a chair. This was going to be a long story, he realized, and leaned a bit more forward on the bar-stool.

“Well, King’s been here since,” and Dot counted on her fingers. “ _Hell._ He’s been running around in that tuxedo since the doors opened for all I know.”

“Well, it’s been about ten years for us; he hired the both of us when shit got ugly that one time.” Pip waggled eyebrows at Dot as if they held a secret for only the two of them to know. “You know, after you decided tryin’ to up-cheat him was a good plan.”

Dot gave Pip a loving, fond gesture with one hand.

“I don’t think anyone knows how long he’s worked here, Mic.” Rum’s voice was gentle over the bickering of the two squirts. Mugman hadn’t noticed the ol’ geezer was there until his voice slid over them all, hoarse yet firm. “He’s been here for a long time. So has Mr. Wheezy.”

“Oi, Mr. Wheezy was the one who orientated me. Same with Mangosteen, he was here before my ass got dragged in.” Chips looked fondly off into the distance. “Can’t believe it’s been that long ago.”

Whiskey bit a smile straight back. “Wasn’t the day you were hired the day Mangosteen cracked that one patron open right in front of you?”

A gleam shot through Chips’ eyes; the man placed both elbows on the counter again and beamed in Whiskey’s direction. “Oh, that b’hoy got it, damn right. Helluva day that was.”

Pip and Dot suddenly sprang back headfirst into the conversation.

“Wasn’t that when Wheezy first stained the carpet with a crushed cigar?”

“No, King yelled at him before for doing that – it wasn’t that time.”

“Oh, right. Did Mangosteen get his head cracked again?”

Pirouletta’s accent slid in. “No, _no._ Not that time.”

“Shit, it was the time Wheezy hauled Mangosteen up, wasn’t it?” Pip’s eyes couldn’t get any brighter. Mugman felt his comprehension of the conversation slip lower and lower. “The crooked patron who didn’t know how to quit, right?”

“That’s the one.” Chips settled stage, and took control; Mic raised an eyebrow as the cowboy slapped both hands down on the counter and a wild grin seized the Pit Boss’ face. Some patrons’ eyes looked up, just for a second, before settling down into the same gambling routine. “Listen up, chaps, I remember this like it was _yesterday._ ”

“Oh, here we go,” mumbled Pirouletta but she was grinning too.

“So, it’s a Sunday night, ya hear? I’m just like Mic here; fresh from the womb, and staggering around like some sorta toddler – no offense, Mic, all newbies look like freshly caught fish.” Mic waved a hand with a smile. “Anywhoo, there’s this bent patron just cheating the shit out of a game. Not subtle in the slightest. He’s cheering, and making a fuss as the slot machine spits out way too much, and our old smoke-master jumps in straight away.”

“Mangosteen was at the foot of the stairs,” Dot interrupted.

“Right, righto.” The Southern accent was slipping in as the cowboy got more invested. “And our ol’ Wheez, he’s done right slaps his hand on the machine ‘n glares at old Mister Cheat here. They share a few words, and Cheat puffs straight on up like a balloon. Mango’s eyes are poppin’ outta his head by this time, but Wheez settles the patron down, tells him he has to get out the Casino quickly before he calls security. Gives him a nice ol’ chance, considering it’s the first time this fella’s been in here. Then good ol’ cigar-breath continues his way.”

“And the patron’s pissed.” Pip drawled.

“Pissed ain’t just the word there. Nah, he’s _waxy._ ” Chips mimicked rolling up sleeves, and scrunched his chest. “So this man, he’s steamy and bitter, and he slides his way over to Wheezy.”

“Slide ain’t the word,” Whiskey said, and tapped his glass against counter. “Glide’s more like it.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. Yeah, he glides,” and the cowboy pushed arm in a movement indicating slippage, as his audience tittered and Mic leaned forward in intrigue, “Glides completely across the Casino - I’m not jokin’, y’all, this fella he just gets up and slides across the room like he’s on a ski-hill – there’s booze dribbling down his front and he’s frothing like some maniac, and he _swings –_ get it, he _swings –_ at Wheezy like that’s gonna do schmuck.”

“Don’t forget how Wheezy wasn’t even facin’ him,” Pirouletta snorted from next to him.

“That too, that’s right. Can’t believe I forgot that.” Chips seemed to beam even more fondly from Pirou’s words. Glances are exchanged amongst them all; some eyes went sideways to where the stairs leads up to the main offices. “Boy, y’all should’ve seen him that day; Dot, you ever seen him more steamy? Bugger the day I do. Anyways. Mango friggin’ decks the dude even before he lays a hand on Wheezy, and they just go at it like cats. No mercy.” A shudder goes through the cowboy, and he grinned an apology. “Ah. Sorry. I get goosebumps remembering how blood-thirsty Mangosteen was that day.”

“Oh, I got to see _that_.” That was a voice Mug hadn’t heard previously, and one that shot his nerves to shit. Trembling, he slowly turned and prepared himself for the yellow gaze; no one could be truly prepared for that stare, however, and what resolve he had hit the ground faster than the roll that had doomed him. The Devil snarled down at him with that overstretched grin.

Silence struck the bar. Mugman wondered if now was too late to book it.

“A fine brawl that was,” Satan said pleasantly, and took a seat.

The crew seemed affected too; a twitch of the hand was present from Dot, and Chips blinked a tad too fast, but overall they absorbed the Big Man’s presence as if he was normal. “G’day auger,” greeted the cowboy, and touched his forehead – an odd gesture in itself, but Mugman admitted it must’ve been to signify the tilt of a hat. “Fancy the chances. We were talkin’ about pleasant Wheezy and backstories to the newbie ya hired.”

“It’s been _very_ educational,” Mic drawled, and he had to refrain from his jaw dropping – the amount of snark just _present_ in the edges of the words, in front of the Boss _– Oh, lord, Mic was dead, dead meat ready to be peeled and presented in the Big Man’s next dish –_

The Devil chuckled. It was low, and husky; it sent shivers across his back and had him fixated even more on his coffee. “I’m glad it’s been so. You like the tuxedo?”

“King says to send two fond gestures of his to you,” Mic said. His mouth twitched. “I think Dot could demonstrate them for you."

Dot blinked, and gave another loving, fond gesture with her hand Mic’s way.

* * *

The yellowed sheet was tossed onto the desk.

“I found the first debtors,” Cuphead said slowly in the dark of the office. His voice betrayed a hint of smugness around the edges, just how his eyes stood out tired. A chip was barely noticeable in the back of the cup’s head.

“Ah.” His voice was steady. “Is that _so._ ”

“They say _hello_.” The tuxedo Cuphead was wearing was ripped. That was irking. He had just ordered that tuxedo for the boy, too. “Regards to their King, to speak.”

“How thoughtful of the chaps.” Keep the voice light. Ignore the playful mischief of Cuphead’s voice. Don’t say _anything_.

“You gonna sign it?”

“Eventually.” _A cigarette. A cigarette sounded quite fine at this time._

“Perfecto.” Cuphead clapped his hands, and looked around his darkened office. Something crossed past his face, and then his newest employee turned a sly smile on him. “The Auger told me to report to you.”

_That little shit._

“ _Do not_ call Him that.” And there was that wrathful green, and King slammed hand onto the desk. The yellowed contract crumbled under his glove. Cuphead didn’t even flinch, just kept grinning away with those tired eyes. “There’s only _one_ man allowed to call him that, _boy,_ and that’s Chips.”

“Yes, Mr. King Dice _Sir._ ” Cuphead stared into his eyes and those tired eyes snarled. “Mugman gets tonight off.”

“That wasn’t part of the arrangement per contract.” Oh, a _cigar_ would be most excellent right now.

“Mugman gets tonight off. I’ll work his shift.” That was more harsh. “Deal?”

King’s hands were barely on the desk, but the die swallowed and wrath flickered only a bit. “ **Deal.** ”

The door slammed behind Cuphead when he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> auger means "big boss". it also means "snake" so =]
> 
> do tell me if i made any mistakes! this was a lot to edit lmao


	9. steamed broccoli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g'day. If teas sent you this way, give them a nice big ol' kick in the arse from me, thanks.

A week passed quickly.

Well. If he was being honest, ‘quickly’ wasn’t the word to describe the passing hours. Actually, Mic couldn’t recall a time when he had been more restless, even with prior experience. The Crew had left him to his own entertainment – which he appreciated, mind you – but, as an ill side-effect to their generosity, he was now completely bored out of his mind in four hour shifts. There was nothing other to do than stare at that microphone and twiddle his thumbs, or vault around the Casino exploring.

Not that he was fond of the exploring part. Exploring had proven to be more difficult than anticipated. The floors were easy to figure out, and memorization came quick enough; however, something had to be wrong with the Casino. That was the only logical explanation he had come to. The Casino had to be messed up, or someone was screwing with him – that or, well, he was going complete batty from staring at the opposing wall in his office. _Which wouldn’t come as a surprise to him now_ , Mic mused with a stifled laugh as he eyed the wallpaper across him for about the, ah, thirtieth time. Not a surprise at all.

Either way, the Casino seemed to be bent on changing around him. Hallways he had just recently passed through seemed to materialize again in front of him, and he’d turn to face the opposing direction to realize he had been walking in the wrong way the whole time. Lunch yesterday had been especially difficult; he couldn’t find the damn staircase to get downstairs for a good ten minutes until finally, frustrated, he had taken out the pocket map Wheezy had sketched out for him. Then he had taken the exact same route he had taken about six times before to see stairs.

Someone had to be pissing with him.

Besides his adventures in the hallways, or staring at the wall, Mic had been reading. Well, attempting to, anyways. He had burnt through three books already, all of them as bland as the passing hours. At least the one he was attempting now had a touch of intrigue to it – a tale of murder and love, with a touch of commentary on society. Not too shabby of a plot, either. It was a shame the book’s style of writing was presented in such a tiring way, otherwise he’d be enjoying it a lot more.

No, Mic couldn’t recall when he had been more bored.

Well. There had been that one time with a completely plastered man at two in the morning.

“Ah. The Great Gatsby?” The voice barely made him flinch this time; he had grown accustomed to the touch of gentleness in his Boss’ tone by now, and how it gently trickled in to rouse his attention from the book. A few days ago, he hadn’t been used to it – actually, he had been bent over reading when the die barged in with a hello. Luckily for King, the book Mic had chucked at him had been a paperback. Luckily for him, King was quick at dodging.

King hesitated and waited for a book – when Mic just blinked, he stepped into the room. “That’s a classic.” The Manager greeted. “Been a while since I read that one.”

A page was flipped. “Good morning to you too,” he greeted without looking up.

There had been one thing interesting about the last few days, Mic had to admit, and that was King’s visits. If he was correct, the die liked to stick his head in twice a day – once in the morning, and once in the evening. Nothing too special – but then again, Mic had also noticed that he seemed to be exclusive to that particular type of visit. Mangosteen was always tramping by his office around lunch just to catch King and have a few words – the die didn’t seem like he stepped that often out of his office during daytime hours to go and ‘visit’.

Perhaps it was because Cuphead seemed to be sticking around him more. Or, perhaps King did this to all newbies. Hell if he knew.

King’s shoes stopped behind him with a scuff. He couldn’t see the die’s irritation, but he could hear it in the next words. “I see Cuphead’s split on his shift again. Lil’ bugger.”

“Ah, it’s been quiet without him.” That was another thing. Cuphead had been hanging around him more, requesting errands and running tasks for him. A tad annoying, but the cup meant well; after all, Mic had paid up ten bucks in change only yesterday to the shine in Cuphead’s eyes and the first time he had heard the cup ever say ‘Thank you’ before rushing off. Today had been the first time the kiddo hadn’t joined him for breakfast. “Didn’t see ‘em this morning.”

“Oh?” King’s voice sounded a tad more sullen than usual. “I’ll have to ask Wheez about that.”

He waved a hand without looking up from the page. “The squirt’s probably off buggin’ Mangosteen again.”

A snicker. Purple got very close, and King peered over his shoulder to eye what part he was reading. A hand found its way on his shoulder. It seemed to have a habit of doing that. “Ah, the hit n’ run.” The die said, almost dismissively. Laughter still echoed in the words. “Such a tragedy, that part. The car was yellow, correct?”

“The cover says enough, King.”

“Oh, quiet.”

He snorted, and continued reading. A comfortable silence lifted between them; King reading over his shoulder with that hand still resting there, and the quiet just interrupted ever-so-briefly by the flicking of a page.

And, perhaps he got a bit more distracted about the way King was reacting to the literature. The book was a tad dull, he had to admit that at times. Plus, the die’s hand was on his shoulder. He couldn’t ignore that. Not when it seemed to tighten a bit when Daisy abandoned poor Gatsby, or when Gatsby shouldered the blame for her. He couldn’t ignore how the die blinked a bit faster when Gatsby waited for Daisy. He couldn’t especially ignore how the die set his teeth when Nick met Tom again. They were all interesting, balanced reactions. Subtle too, if King didn’t have his hand on his shoulder.

He wondered if King was this ‘touchy’ with other Pit Boss’. Probably.

Forty minutes, and King was still there. Mic wondered if he should invite King to sit down if the man was going to stand there craning his head. However, he didn’t get the chance. The hand shifted on his shoulder; he looked up to see King’s eyes had moved from the page to look down at him.

“Five minutes, and you haven’t flipped the page,” the King teased. “Distracted?”

Ah, piss off. He rolled his eyes and grinned. King’s hand slipped off his shoulder. “Wondering whether to invite you to sit down, or ask ya what you’re still doin’ here.”

“Stallin’ time.” King returned the hand back to his side. The die side-eyed the door, and grimaced. “Got a date with a dealer who’s plenty interested in tryin’ to buy part of our old, outdated security system off us. Thinks his lil’ Casino down yonder could use a bit of touchin’ up. He’s standing outside my office right now.”

“Old?”

“Haven’t ya noticed the fresh paint off your walls?” King raised an eyebrow with a shrug. His entire demeanor turned sympathetic. “The old system needed some touches up. We were about to give some new screens to the man who had your post last, before he uh, before he retired.” Another shrug. “Not that he would’ve used ‘em though. That fella liked to wander around, making friends with patrons.”

“That so?”

“What can I say? He was an antsy one, that one.” That was laced with...fondness? Mic raised his eyes from the page, which only caused King to clear his throat aggressively. “That was a shame. We spent too much on the system for it to dust.”

“It won’t dust.” He lazily said. The book was placed down.

King opened his mouth to retort.

And there was this awful crack. He nearly jolted up; King turned as if slapped sideways by the noise. Accusingly, the Manager stared at the door as if expecting someone to materialize to tell him what happened; and with the gaze, the agitated thump of footsteps came from outside. The door was slapped open with a crack.

There stood the squirt - breathing hard, and with this awful sort of panic glistening in his eyes. Following him was this fellow Mic had never laid eyes on before; a card, Diamond, glistening in a tuxedo he recognized vaguely as based off King’s. Silver flashed on their chest, and died away; Mic blinked to see a similar crown pin on the Diamond’s lapel. The Diamond adjusted, and bowed towards King in formal obedience.

The Diamond tried to speak first. “There’s been an incident.”

Mugman wasn’t as composed. “Cuphead’s an _idiot,_ ” and that was seething in panic; finally, the mug pointed down the hall. "Patrons. Angry. Brawl. Tried to find you but you weren’t in your office so I assumed you were here, but King - Cuphead’s in trouble, and a blackjack table’s been halved.” Mugman paused for breath, gestured widely, and failed to capture all his feelings at once. “I think this’ll be a smashing one, you better come break it up -"

“It’s a pal of Pyscarrot,” the Diamond said simply to finish it off, and clasped both hands together.

Danger feinted at the air as the Manager reflected at the news. Mirth filled his words in a detached manner - a sinister amusement that crackled around the die like static. Mic looked up to see polished harlequin eyes flicker their satisfaction. The Diamond took one step back, and grew stiff as an officer awaiting commands.

“Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen?” King said with wicked glee, and adjusted his cuffs. “It’s about time.”

* * *

 

Cuphead hadn’t expected the broccoli to smash a table.

That was a bit over-dramatic. The table hit the wall and scattered into splinters - a thud cracked through the Casino and the echo shut up all patrons. He paused and glanced to the side; the dent was impressive, sure. Maybe it had him squinting around for senior help - oh, and there was Mugman running up the stairs to King’s office. Thank the Devil.

There had been an expected bit of aggression, Cuphead thought as he stared up into the snivelling mustache of the broccoli, and those fists that could probably snap him in half in a second. Yeah, he had figured maybe the veggie would’ve made a movement to punch a wall or scream out blasphemies. Demand for King. Or, well, _slap_ him at least. Physical violence he would have dealt with quickly.

Destroying tables? Threatening patrons? Now that was something else.

He had miscalculated tremendously.

“You took my boy’s souls.” The broccoli shoved a finger towards him and sneered - those eyes were wide in tremendous wrath, stained bloodshot in the scent of vodka. He blinked, and swallowed. Heavy-weight, a bit more on the plump side rather than muscle. If he kept dodging, he might be able to keep it up until the fatty tired out. “You scrapped ‘em and left ‘em to die. Give that contract _back_.”

Oh, _bother._ “I’m just the collector, Sir,” he said as the crowd tutted and necks were craned to see what the fuss was about. A circle had formed; a polite, much dignified circle that seemed more excited than anxious. The broken blackjack table was forgotten.“I’m sorry, Sir, it’s part of the job. Orders.”

“Orders -?” and the broccoli stuttered for a response - those gloves unclenched, and clenched again. “Orders? Piss off. You left my boys bleedin’ after you beat them _senseless._ ”

“Orders.” And he smiled - blinked, and put both hands behind his back. “I’m honestly sorry about beating your boys up, Sir. They cheated at the Casino, and owed us a debt - and, Sir, they just wouldn’t come along quietly. I apologize for doing what had to be done.”

There was a sympathetic air to apologizing; those who were bothering to listen suddenly felt an urge to take Cuphead’s side, just as planned. Eyes that had been supporting the broccoli dawned into hostility - the apology had placed Cuphead clearly in full right and honourability for his handsome behaviour. Confusion flashed in those drunken pupils; the broccoli staggered back, as onwatching eyes judged from afar.

“If they were debtors, they deserved a bit o’ beating _,_ ” someone called out in the back.

The broccoli flinched.

_Bingo._

“Now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay for that table you broke, Sir.” A moment was given to the deceased blackjack table.

The drunken patron’s face slackened in something akin to regret and rage. “I’m not paying _slag._ ”

“You broke it, you owe us.” Strict. Stern. _Remember what Pirouletta sounded like when she dealt with that sore loser, Cuphead._ “Cough up.”

“I’m not paying _slag,_ ” repeated the broccoli, even as he guilty eyed the blackjack table and stepped back again. “Take a _hike._ ”

“You heard the _boy_ ,” sneered someone else. Another fatty. Cuphead stepped back some, and let the two breathe down each other’s necks. Oh, they were completely plastered. “Didn’t you hear him? It’s his job, just as your job is to sit yer _scag-ass_ down and cry a river. Pay up.”

“ _Ay -_ scag?” Those vodka eyes went sour again. “Fly elsewhere, spiv.”

A cackle. The other demon crossed his arms and jeered. “ _Fatass._ ”

Mr. Wheezy hadn’t taught him how to deal with drunken patrons arguing like immature brats. Cuphead took another step back, and gestured for the crowd to do so too. No one paid any mind. _Idiots._ Well, he wasn’t going to get punched in the face when fists started swinging. _Where was Mugman?_

Though he should attempt to look like he wasn’t trying to cause trouble. “Gentlemen.” Oh, they weren’t listening now. “Gentlemen.”

“Piss sideways, _nelly_.”

“ _Nelly?_ ”

Eyes went lethal. A movement went to the left glove. Something went _thump._

Cuphead forgot how to breathe.

And King stepped right through the crowd just to see the left glove hit the ground.

No one moved.

“Well,” and the Manager’s voice oozed delight in the overbearing silence. “I reckon we got ourselves a bit of a brawl on our hands, fellas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fight fight fight fight
> 
> note! definitions to the insults exchanged between the broccoli and demon are here: http://circa1935.proboards.com/thread/2


	10. Fight 1

_Well,_ Mic thought with the steadfast intention of pushing away anxiety, _the crowd could’ve been larger._

Not that the crowd wasn’t large. For such a short-notice event, the amount of people gathered was staggering. There were people crunched in areas he had no idea how the hell they managed to get up there; security battered the ones standing on tables in the far back down, and some idiot drunks had to be pulled down from the ring itself. Overall, havoc was reined in by tired guards; Mangosteen stood at the foot of the boxing ring, and commanded with golden glares and that cuestick.

King didn’t mind the chaos. By the swagger of his hips his enthusiasm was only matched by the small waves the King gave to the tip of his forehead as he passed appreciative patrons.

Wheezy was not enjoying himself when they got to the ring. He was busy prying a rat off the side of the cage with his club, belting out a nice, enthusiastic rant about drunks. Bits of smoke rose to the ceiling as the cigar yanked the drunk by the collar and pushed him aside -- a fleck of flame was noticeable in the ash.

One last prod, and the rat fell free. Mumbling, Wheezy spun back around to face King. “Sir.”

King barely missed a stride. “Are the bettin’ pools open?”

Somehow, this managed to manifest the eight-ball from behind the cigar. Mic had the image of the two glued at the hip, and tried to forget about lunch. Mr. Wheezy didn’t notice his partner. “King, I’ve been doing this for how long?”

“I daresay a vexingly long time.”

Wheezy snorted. “They’re as open as can be.”

Mangosteen bent down to snatch the rat by the collar, and came up with a suggestive smile. “Not as open as your –”

“ _Family. Night._ ”

A huff of smoke came from Wheezy’s direction. Mangosteen just winked in Wheezy’s direction and ambled off.

_What an exciting mental image to go on-stage to._

“Now, old chap,” and a gentle brush of the die’s hand against his arm had his attention. King waved him away from the flustered cigar and back to the ring. “There’s some rules about these announcin’ brawls that I gotta set your way first. First off, don’t, uh -” and a grimace set across the die’s face. “Don’t pick a side.”

That was _ominous_ coming without context. “Sounds like that happened a lot.”

“The last fella was a free-spirited one.” King made a face. “Had to enforce that rule.”

“Ain’t that a pity.” Mic swung under the boxing ring net; for once, he was grateful experience had his execution smooth and with the air of expertise. Turning around, he just caught the tip of King’s eyebrow twitching. “Anything else?”

“Don’t get punched.”

That got a snort out of him. He was being more vocal, and Mic knew it – but, he racked that up to nerves. _Had to be a bit vocal when you were announcing, right?_  “Any _helpful_ tips, King?”

King’s eyebrows went up. His audacity didn’t land him in trouble once more; instead, the Manager seemed to be pleased that he was being sassed. A finger went to poke him in the chest. “I’ve watched that demon fight before. Steer clear of his left side, ‘cuz the dude is _zip!_ I ain’t scrapping you off the floor ‘cuz you didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”

“Noted.” Mic scuffed his foot in the ring. Decent traction. Working on slippery rings was a _bitch_. “When’s it starting?”

“Now,” King said. “Think Whiskey’s ‘bout to give the all-clear.”

 _Let’s give a cheer to not warming up._ “Alright.”

“This ain’t too sudden?” Dice asked before Mic went into the centre. For a second there, his excitement was overshadowed by a hint of guilt; dull, half-thought guilt about throwing Mic to the dogs. Mic cropped the Manager’s guilt up to throwing him in there out of the blue. “You won’t get up there n’ get cold feet, will ya?”

Mic just about-laughed. Instead, he managed to pull a grin out of his ass and his voice together from the bits of his larynx, and looked back at Dice. “Ain’t I your Announcer, King?”

A smile caught itself at Dice’s lips. King shook his head, and a lazy, appreciating snort coughed through the buzz of the crowd. Those gloves twitched in something – what it was, Mic had no clue. “Knew Martini picked a good one,” the die said softly, and with a click of his heel, he was over the ring’s cage and into plain view.

Mic very much forgot about the crack of emotion because everything went _loud._ Cheers cracked to life, and suddenly every set of eyes was glued to them. Surprisingly, he could recognize a few in the bits of the crowd; Cuphead and Mugman stood tall on a few tables in the back, and he saw Martini slipping between tables with tall orders. From those few there were five more unknowns, and Mic felt a tiny bit regretful that he hadn’t chosen a better outfit than the simple white shirt and tan pants.

“Greetings, patrons,” said King, and that was all he was able to say, because appreciative whistles and jeers stormed through his words. King only raised both hands in acknowledgement, and shone that damn grin even wider. His white gloves clapped together loudly as if to shut everyone up. “Ah - settle down, settle down. It’s just me -- yes, settle down dear beloved patrons.”

The cheers died down.

“Now, it’s been a while, I know. Entertainment has been back to zilch, reliant on Mangosteen and Mr. Wheezy’s latest quarrel of the month, and a few other unfortunate incidents thanks to Whiskey in the back, give a hand to those beloved Pit Bosses.” Another cheer rose up. Whiskey waved a hand from the far back of the room.

“Now, fellas, you all remember ol’ Buzz, right? Good ol’ Buzz.” A murmur went through the wave of patrons; a few nods, a few grimaces. King set one light hand on his breast, and waved away emotion attached to the name. “Well, it’s hard to run entertainment without him. I dear apologize for the lack of excitement this Casino has been having, especially since Hocus ran sick.”

“Who’s the lovely lad with ya, King?” Someone shouted. Mic didn’t recognize the voice.

“Ah, this handsome gent?” King bumped his shoulder. “ _Mikey,_ why don’t you tell ‘em your name?”

“Believe you already have, King,” Mic said back without pause. An eyebrow went up – the crowd _ooh_ -ed in delight.

“Rascal. Yeah, this is Mic. Good ol’ chap, handsome fella. Not too hard on the eyes, ladies and gents, not too hard.” A dazzling emphasis was placed on words; the King gestured grandly over with a narrowed eye to him. Amusement trickled like a river through the words. “Just hired too; one of the freshies, so don’t mind him none if he stumbles over his words. Still in awe of me, I believe.”

“We here for entertainment tonight, or complimenting your ego, King?” Mic said, and nudged him back.

The crowd went nuts. King turned back to him; and Mic caught that little bit of surprise that tugged at the corners of his eyes. Then, as soon as it passed over the shock flared into his boss' grin, wicked and impishly _delighted._

“But I think we’ve bored them enough with our prattle, huh? Microphone’s over there, Mikey-boy,” King near sang the words and waved a hand, tapped him on the shoulder. The next words were barely a hiss, lips barely moved. “Luck to you, ol’ chap.”

And he was off the stage. The crowd, lost without their King, went silent.

Mic looked out into the unfamiliar eyes of the crowd, and thought; _well, here we go._

“Well, evenin’.” He said into the mic, and heard the two boxers enter the ring. “It’s a swell day for a brawl, huh?”

* * *

 King was barely in his seat when Mic started talking.

There’s something in his voice, King noticed. Something new. Vibrant bass strings after the words, foolhardy courageous as his new Announcer grabbed the mic and made his way back to the ring. The pathetic broccoli and tall, past-his-prime monster are already itching to go, but King can spot reluctance a mile-away and the broccoli’s full of it.

He thought; _how will this one deal with reluctance?_ The last Announcer did not care about the wellbeing of the boxers. Dice recalled damn well how the man slammed them into the fight, and cheered viciously at the sidelines. Some of those fights were terribly one-sided.

Though it seemed Mic had a different plan.

“Brock O. Lee? Damn fine to meet you – say, you’re the one who broke the blackjack table? Shame for that table.” The words are throwing the broccoli right off – King had never seen a doomed boxer go through an emotional rollercoaster so quickly. “Least it wasn’t a poker table – might be having six or more fellas itching to beat you for disturbing your chips. You know who’s the absolute finicky about a few nudges of the table? Pool members. Say, Mangosteen, am I right about that?”

A cackle from the crowd. Mangosteen waved his pool cue to the stage in mock-indignation.

_Damn Devil, he’s good._

“Say, let’s forget the table. You win this match and you’ll have enough gold to smack around many blackjack tables as you’d like.” A staged whisper; a few laughs are weaseled out just to shame the broccoli more. If anything, the commentary was just getting the vegetable mad; and King saw exactly what Mic was doing to provoke a fairer fight. “That all depends if you ain’t shaking in your boots at that monster over there, eh? Look a tad green. Cheer up, _ol’ chap._ ”

“I’m _fine_ ,” the broccoli snarled.

And then the man does something different, something King didn’t expect. He leaned in; King blinked and watched the Announcer whisper something in the vegetable’s ear. No one had any idea what the man said, but his lips were moving -- and the broccoli’s knees froze for that second.

“And so you are ready.” Mic spread hands back, waved one finger to the vegetable. “Break a leg.” At the vegetable’s glare and the crowd’s cackle he pretended to raise an eyebrow and correct his blunder. “Ah, sorry. Habit. Good luck.”

 _Confidence,_ King mused.

The broccoli cracked his fists and glared across the ring. Job done, King watched Mic slide across the ring to the demon’s side.

“And there’s you – ah, yes, Cuphead sends his thanks for saving his damsel-in-distress body earlier.” There was a splutter in the crowd. Mic ignored it. “Doubt I need to say much to you – what do you all think? He look ready?” Cheers. The monster puffed up his chest even more, and glared across the ring to the steaming broccoli.

Mic wasn’t done there though. Like the same as the broccoli, he dropped closer and whispered something into the demon's ear. Red eyes flared, and nostrils huffed, and with that Mic slunk away back to the middle of the ring and bowed.

Great cheers. Wrath bubbled in the boxing ring to Mic’s mocking voice. The broccoli took a fighting stance.

King wasn’t aware that his hand had stopped tapping on the Cognac glass. _When had that happened?_

The announcer stepped out of the ring. His voice yelled.

“Patrons, blink now while you can.”

There was so much enthusiasm. The fixation was admirable.

“Alright -- ready, set And Go!”

The fight should not have mattered.

That’s what King’s mind told him anyways. He had been born witness to so many brawls each punch was as dull as the next. Even if blood was spilt it was just routine watching. Sometimes the fights took so long King had a Diamond wander to and fro from his office to fetch him overdue paperwork and get it done by the time the last punch hit.

Not this one.

Oh, _no_ , because whatever Mic had whispered to both before the fight begun had worked its magic. The broccoli cracked fists as if it meant his life. It was overwhelming _violent_. Obviously the demon hadn’t expected much resistance, but there it was, carnal in defiance.

And Mic’s commentary was so fitting that it _hurt_ how good it was. Every punch there was a brief yell of excitement, every feint and the Announcer caught it with his voice. He did not pause to breath. Sometimes his voice cracked -- but it was from strain, excitement having overtaken it. He had the crowd leaning forward at the usually boring punches, drew attention just right at minor details. It was like he predicted every move before it happened between the two.

The demon’s head snapped back, stunned at a punch. Mic yelled, “And it’s another left!”

His hand had definitely stopped prodding at his Cognac glass.

“ – and he’s having at it – what a killer left hook that _was,_ patrons – and my oh my, I can’t even begin to say the beautiful form of that punch, _splendid –”_

From his side, Wheezy gave him _the_ look. He ignored it in favour of the rambling, _steady_ voice of Mic.

 _He’s perfect,_ King thought right before the final punch shot.

And the match was over as quick as it begun.

* * *

“Hey,” Cuphead said at the edge of the boxing ring when Mic stepped down. He had a glass of water in his hands, and held it out as soon as his jittery steps grew near. “Twas’ a lotta yelling you did. Sounded good.”

“Sounded _shittin’_ nervous,” he joked and took the water. His fingers nearly slipped. _Jesus,_ he could feel his pulse beating around his ears, see where the world grew hazy in his sight. The exhilaration still pumped fresh; a light press of joy, maybe excitement, still trickled over in his chest from stage.

“Bullshit,” Cuphead snorted and leaned back on the end of the stage. Half-lidded eyes stared across the audience, most of which were still cheering. Some were helping ol’ Broccoli to his feet, and dragging him to the exit. Poor man. Put up a hell of a show though. “I think you had Whiskey in a faint at one point.”

“You’re jokin’.” Mr. Wheezy and Mangosteen are beaming across the room at him though. Likewise, other Pit Boss’ are grinning in his direction – the shine of the crown lapel almost matched the glint of teeth. A tall skeleton horse eyed him – or at least, craned their neck his way – before leaving in an intrigued fascination.

In the corner of the room, he just caught yellow eyes retreating away.

“Would I joke?” Cuphead remarked, then reconsidered. “Well. About this. Oh, Dice’s still here.”

He snapped his head to the side. Lo and behold, there was King, still sitting at his table with that unreadable expression across his face. He was a statue of importance, fixed as those eyes swept to and fro amongst the crowd, searching. Quick hellos were being shared, and only sometimes the King would nod in acknowledgement - but then it was back to that poise of the chin, the lax of that smile. His eyes were mute in contemplation.

He caught those eyes gently. King blinked, and there was the shade of green. A horrible pause built, and Mic felt his hands on that glass twitch a bit more. The moment of judgement settled in the boxing ring.

King winked, and raised his glass in a toast.

“Look at you,” Cuphead murmured beside him, and flicked the boxing ring absentmindedly. “Impressin’ Dice now, ain’tcha?”

Mic began to grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now time for my normally scheduled 12-month hiatus.
> 
> jokes, jokes.


End file.
